


Not Without Merit

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Scouts, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Nothing explicit until they're 18, Romance, Some underage things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Summer of 1991, Dean Winchester is twelve years old and settling into his new Boy Scout camp - begrudgingly. He'd rather be at home playing with his baby brother, soaking up the school-free months while his mom makes apple pie. But his dad wants him to go, so he does. It's family tradition.<br/>But Camp McKinny is different, mostly because of his new, unexpected friend Castiel. So different, in fact, that Dean writes to him between summers, and Cas writes back.<br/>This is the story of love, of loss, and two friends who are tied together by one camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Summer - 1991

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This was originally a small ficlet about [Dean and Cas as Boy Scout camp counselors](http://plaidcas.tumblr.com/post/81652523420/you-smell-like-firewood-dean-whispers-voice) and then I began to think about back stories. And then I started posting these 'parts' to Tumblr and I got a whole lot of positive feedback.
> 
> But, to quote Castiel, I'm making this up as I go. I am writing this for my sole enjoyment of imagining Dean and Cas as cute little boy scouts and - of course - follow their friendship into the budding romance I only wish would be evident on screen.
> 
> If you leave kudos and comments, I might kiss you. You are also welcome to go to my tumblr (plaidcas) and send nice messages because, well, it might implore me to write faster.
> 
> PS. I don't have a beta so all mistakes are my own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I guess you’re the only one I can trust around here. What’s your name?"
> 
> "Cas," the boy answers and not-so-subtly stretches his hand across the table. "It’s short for Castiel, but it’s a weird name."
> 
> Dean finds himself chuckling as he shakes the kid’s hand. “Yeah, it kinda is,” he agrees. “But, yeah, nice to meet you Cas. I’m Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas are 12.

**The First Summer - 1991**

His dad’s neckerchief is a little tight, the knot pressed against his almost-there Adam’s apple. But, honestly, the gold and faded red scarf— _thing_  is the least atrocious thing about his nerdiform. His khaki shorts are too short, his hair flattened and shoved into a cap that’s more like a  _gallon_ hat because it goes down over his ears.

He’d rather run around naked than be caught in  _this_ in public. He’s twelve for Christ’s sake, and he’s not a cub scout anymore. But every summer, yeah, he has to wear it on his first day to camp. His only saving grace is that he knows absolutely no one at camp. Every year, it seems, it’s a new camp. Mostly because the family can’t stay in one place due to his dad’s job in the military. Dean heaves a sigh, tugging at the knot at his neck as a knock comes from his door. “You dressed?” It’s his dad’s voice.

"Yeah," Dean calls back, and then turns from his mirror to watch his dad approach. It’s out of habit—he’s a military brat after all—that he stands at attention and bows his chin ever so slightly. A small bout of panic comes upon him when his Dad stands inches in front of him. Did he put his pins on wrong? Is his hat crooked.

"You got the neckerchief knot down pat, son," John says, then lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He perks at the praise, smiling. He  _hates_ being a boy scout, everything about it. But he has to admit that a gaze of pride or eight glowing words keep him from quitting every year. That, and the free popcorn.

 

* * *

 

Mary, his mom, drives him to the camp. Sam fidgets in the back row of their minivan, sprawled across the seat with his feet up in the air and a nose buried in his book. He’s even wearing his little cub scout necktie. Dean watches him briefly in the rearview mirror, smiling at the fact that his little brother dresses like a nerd to be like  _Dean_. If only he knew that Dean loathed everything about being a boy scout (and he’ll never know, because secretly Dean craves that adoration his brother gives him, even more than his father’s praise).

When he turns his eyes back to the windshield, he sees a lodge in the distance. He’s never been to Camp McKinny before, but it’s really no different than the other’s that came before. It’s basically a giant ass log cabin with a boy scout emblem carved onto a sign. And they’re are a bunch of trees. _Big deal._

"Now, you call if anything happens," his mom says as the car comes to a stop in front of the lodge. Scouts are all around, flooding out of their parents’ cars (and arms, but Dean may be victim of a massive Mary-Winchester hug any second now, so no judgement from him). "And don’t harass anyone. And listen to your troop leader." She pauses for thought. "And you  _better_ eat your vegetables.”

That last sentence makes Sam giggle, so Dean ignores his mom altogether and turns around in his seat “I don’t want to hear anything from the peanut gallery!” Dean yells at Sam, which makes the kid laugh even harder. What a geek. He sits back down and sighs dramatically. “Like every year, Ma, I’ll be fine. It’s boy scout camp, not  _Survivor._ ”

"You are such a smart a—y pants," she mutters, and then quickly leans across the console to steal a kiss on Dean’s cheeks. He whines and can’t get away from her quick enough.

"Bye mom!" he exasperates, gathering his duffle and pulling down his cap. He’s not blushing, but he is getting the heck out of that car before his mom plants another one on him. When he gets his suitcase out of the trunk, he calls a, "Bye Sam!" inside, and then his brother peers over the seat to wave, smiling like he knows something Dean doesn’t.

* * *

Sam is a little shit, Dean decides. Because, apparently, what Dean didn’t know (and what Sam  _obviously_ did) is that his mom left a big smear of her red lipstick on his face. And  _everyone_ noticed.

And no one would talk to him. They’d look at him and laugh, which pissed Dean off so much he wanted to throw them into the ground. He was dressed the same as all of them! Why were they being mean? He must’ve wiped his nose about five hundred times to make sure he didn’t have anything there. And he checked his fly, and adjusted his hat…

It was really bumming him out.

After the opening ceremony at camp, the boys were all ushered into the mess hall for lunch. It was obvious that these kids had known each other for years and had their own little cliques formed. Dean knows the drill, it’s not the first time he’s been thrown in with a new batch of kids. But these twelve and thirteen year-olds are especially cruel, and he’s  _almost_ ready to call his mom and feels pretty pathetic about that.

He gets his lunch from the line (and gets absolutely no vegetables) and makes two attempts to sit at a table (“These seats are taken—yeah, all of ‘em.” “Sorry, you can’t sit here—yeah, because I set so—get lost.”). Finally Dean gives up and finds a table with one other loner, and feels like  _trash_ to have stooped to this level. Because he’s  _not_ a loner, and he is  _above_ sitting with them.

Dean stares down at his food. Well, he really doesn’t have any place to be picky.

But he is nonetheless startled when the loner-kid scoots down, so that he’s directly in front of Dean.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" he asks directly, eyes glued to Dean’s face. It creeps Dean out, and he shifts uncomfortably.

And he may blush a little bit before meeting the kid’s gaze. “What’s it to you?” 

The boy presses his lips together momentarily, and then tilts his head. “I just don’t know how else you would get kissed.” Dean’s eyebrows furrow in confusion as the kid’s face lights up. “ _Oh,_ your mom must have kissed you!”

"What?" Dean deadpans and then touches a hand to his cheek. His blood runs cold when he feels the faint texture of something that’s not skin. He pulls his fingers back, and sees red. "Son of a bi—scuit!"

"So you didn’t know?"

"Of course I didn’t!"

"…No one told you."

"No!" Dean wipes his face with a napkin until the skin is raw. "I guess you’re the only one I can trust around here. What’s your name?"

"Cas," the boy answers and not-so-subtly stretches his hand across the table. "It’s short for Castiel, but it’s a weird name."

Dean finds himself chuckling as he shakes the kid’s hand. “Yeah, it kinda is,” he agrees. “But, yeah, nice to meet you Cas. I’m Dean.”

"Nice to meet you too, Dean." He smiles, and it’s genuine. Dean may be slumming it with the loner-kid (there always is one at camp) but at least he’s nice. Because, honestly, all the other kids are jerks. Bullies. Dean doesn’t like bullies.

* * *

The summer flies by in a whirlwind of new experiences.

It’s the first time in, well, ever Dean’s actually enjoyed boy scout camp. Usually he would sneak out of the cabin to the lodge and watch whatever was on in the mess hall, meanwhile snacking on vending machine snacks. But Cas was hardcore about camping and convinced Dean to break his usual habits.

At night, after the rest of their cabin goes to sleep, they go out to some old fire pit by the lake and roast leftover hot dogs and marshmallows (courtesy of Dean). Most nights, they talk about nothing except the sounds—crackle of thunder, the mysterious and enthralling sound of snapping tree limbs—and their lives back home.

Cas is the youngest of five, and his Mom is their troop’s den mother back home, which is why he joined. Like Dean, he really didn’t want to, but embraced it anyway, unlike Dean.

Cas has a crap ton of badges involving knots, snares, and starting a fire with flint stones. By the end of the summer, Dean has all those badges too. And Cas’s address, because he thinks that maybe he’s made himself a pen pal.

On the last day of camp, Cas and Dean sit on the curb as they wait for their rides. Cas is looking up into the cloudy morning sky, like he’s watching for something up above. Dean’s eyes traces the lines around Castiel’s bright blue ones, lines from squinting,

"You going to miss me?" he asks Cas out of nowhere. They’ve been so close these past few weeks, so it shouldn’t seem like such an intimate question, yet he feels the need to tack on, "Because I’d miss me too."

Cas smirks. “Yeah, I guess I’ll miss you. And your ego.”

"Hey!"

Before Cas has a chance to respond (Dean knows by the almost-there smile that Cas had a good quip on the tip of his tongue) a horn blares. It’s Dean’s mom, waving at him happily. “Oh, this is for me,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. Castiel follows him, standing as well. He always does. And Dean’s heart swells so much he can’t stand it, so he leaps forward to hug Cas hard and fast. “I’ll miss you too,” he confides quietly before gathering his things and packing into the family minivan.

"Who’s your friend?" Mary asks him, but Dean doesn’t want to answer as they drive away. So then she moves onto another line of questions about his trip, and finds that most of his answers he edits, because they’re filled with Cas.


	2. Letters - 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's from Castiel," his mom says with a curve of a smile that makes Dean blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas are 12.

**Letters - 1991**

Dean writes to Cas periodically throughout the fall, stealing his mother's stamps from her purse and swiping some if his dad's fancy stationary. Eventually he's caught on both counts, but his mom gives him his own book of stamps while his dad gives him the whipping of his life.

He won't ever forget, nor throw away, the first reply he ever got from Cas. Nearly folded plain white xerox paper, vivid blue ink that bled in all the places where held the tip down too long. Dean reads it beneath his bedsheets before he goes to sleep, lighting the letter with his flashlight.

 

> _Dear Dean,_
> 
> _I'm glad you wrote me. My brother Gabriel was actually the first one to open your letter, but it's okay because my mother grounded him. She said reading other people's mail is a federal crime, so she took it upon herself to punish him. He won't ever open my letters again I hope._
> 
> _Sorry you're not happy at your new school. I don't get into fights, but the kids in my grade do like to use me as a punching bag. Does that make you feel better?_
> 
> _I'm going to wait for the mailman to come before I send this. I don't trust Gabriel not to read it. He's really curious about you, and I just tell him you're the best friend I've ever made. That sounded weird. Sorry. I wish wrote in pencil instead..._
> 
> _Sincerely, Castiel_

Dean swallows a lump in his throat, but doesn't try to suppress the smile that grows on his lips, that warms his chest--like someone dropped a match in the pit of the stomach but it doesn't  _hurt._ He realizes that sounds so girly. And that's what thoughts are for. Thinking girly things only makes him a girl if he says them out loud.

And who's gonna know that he reads the letter, word by word by fluorescent light, at least twenty times before falling asleep, the joy of friendship leaving its mark in dreams that have never been so bright.

* * *

Letters come, and Dean makes sure to send replies. Often. He thinks that it's really just common courtesy to reply fast. It just means he gets to hear from Cas again, soon. Sometimes he'll get back a reply in a week, sometimes a month (but when it takes that long Castiel always apologizes and blames it on his brothers' teasing, but Dean sometimes worries it's something else).

When Christmastime comes, Dean is left speechless when his mother hands him a small envelope wrapped tight in packing tape.

"It's from Castiel," she says with a curve of a smile that makes Dean blush.

"Well, that's nice of him." Dean is trying not to look excited, because that'll just give her ammunition to tease him. His fingers drag across the edge, excited by the thrumming in his chest. Cas gave him a  _present,_ and Dean didn't even think beyond getting him a nice Christmas card.

Mary looks amused by Dean's lack of response. "Would you like to open it, or save it for Wednesday?"

Dean scoffs at the idea of opening Cas's present on Christmas. In front of everyone? Sam is liable to be an obnoxious nosy brat. So yeah, big no. "No way, Mom," Dean says, taking a step back from her with pinched eyes. "I'm going to my room."

He takes the envelope and runs upstairs. Relief washes over him, submerges him, once he's away from his family and he pulls out his swiss army knife to slice open the package. He shakes it, and from the padded-inside comes a chunk of metal. It fits in his palm, rectangular and cold, and a bronze color that reminds Dean of sunsets.

It's a lighter, he realizes after a moment, and grips it tight, flicks back the top and ignites a flame that, in the dark of his bedroom, brings an engraving to Dean's attention. It says,  _Paradiso._

Whatever that means.

He flicks the lighter shut and smiles, setting it on his nightstand. After groping inside the envelope, he discovers a letter inside too.

 

> _Dean,_
> 
> _I saw this lighter at an antique store and thought it might be useful. Especially at camp next year, if you decide to come. I don't know if I've told you, but I really hope you come back to McKinny. It's the best summer I've had there. Last summer, I mean, when you were there. You made it better._
> 
> _Merry Christmas,_
> 
> _Cas_

Dean silently folds the letter and puts it in his night stand drawer, which is overflowing with letters. He has to use one hand to press the paper down, and the other to shove the drawer shut. It occurs to him then, that Castiel's letters have never been so short.

Yet, he's never said so much.

* * *

The six months between Christmas and May don't pass fast enough, for all Dean's concerned. He  _hates_ school, hates the kids and the teacher and he almost began to pray for his Dad to get transferred to another base. But he also prayed not to move, because it may've meant moving out of the state. And then he wouldn't get to go to Camp McKinny. And thought he'd actually be excited for scout camp.

He mostly just wants to see Cas, maybe think him properly for the Christmas present, which has burnt a hole (figuratively) in his pocket for months. He won't leave home without it. Sam calls him a pyro, and his dad thinks that a boy don't need a lighter all the time.

Well Dean isn't a  _boy_ and lighters are actually  _useful_ unlike that god damn coloring book Sam takes everywhere. His dad don't know anything.

The resentment and tension between the two of them made the ride to camp really awkward.

"Now son," John says as Dean stares out the passenger window and watches the rush of green trees fly past them. He briefly shifts his eyes, thinking he'd rather ignore his dad. "Dean, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah."

"Then why don't you act like it. Sit up."

"Why? Is there a merit badge for good posture?"

His dad doesn't dignify that with a response, and his jaw sets. "I don't want any phone calls, you got that? You were a delinquent this year. You need to get your act together. This is the year you need to get your badges rounded up so you'll be set to become an eagle scout."

Dean sits up a bit straighter. "Dad, I don't  _wanna_  be an eagle scout."

"What do you mean, you don't want to be a an eagle scout?" John parrots, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

"Exactly what I said. I don't wanna do that."

"Because you don't want to work for it?"

"No, because  _I don't care!"_ Dean yells. "I just--I do it because you want to. The boy scouts. I didn't know I'd be signed up for life or something."

"I was an eagle scout, and it's the best thing a young man can do with his spare time. You learn about  _community,_ you learn about being a patriot. You learn to  _serve_ a cause, and learn to stick to your guns even when you're under fire."

Dean glares at him. "This isn't a war, dad, you don't have to treat me like your goddamned soldier," he huffs beneath his breath.

"Watch your mouth, Dean, or I'll turn this car around and you'll bet your  _ass_ you won't get any more letters from your little friend."

"Mom wouldn't let you." Disbelief stains his tone--he _wouldn't--_

"Your mother isn't my keeper. I'm your father, your my son, it's my job to raise you to be a man."

He isn't bluffing, Dean decides, panic swelling in his chest. He strategically turns in his seat, back straight as he mirrors his father, staring past the windshield into asphalt. "I'll behave, sir," he promises, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"Good."


	3. The Second Summer, Second to None - 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy he met a year ago was small and kind of mousy, with dark brown hair that jutted out of his hat in all different directions. Dean can't help but stare because the same face he'd imagined writing all those freaking letters two is there, but attached to another body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I recently moved so I went a whole week (gasp) without internet access except through my cell phone.
> 
> Dean and Cas are 13.

**The Second Summer, Second to None - 1992**

Dean's the first to his cabin, which is the same one he was assigned the year before. In it are eight bunk beds--they're ugly as hell, made of white cedar logs to give it that camping feel. The mattresses are all stripped bare, and have funny, questionable stains. For that reason alone Dean brought a fitted sheet and  two sets of plain sheets, just to be safe. He smiles to himself when he notices that no one else has come and claimed the beds, so he snags the one closest to the back door that leads to an outhouse. Makes it easier to sneak out, if he wants to.

Then it dawns on him that he doesn't  _do_ that anymore, or at least he didn't last summer. Since Cas had his rotten, goody-two-shoes influence on him. That's gonna change, Dean decides.

On top of claiming the best bunk in the cabin, Dean takes the top bunk too. Only because he knows Cas prefers the bottom, for whatever reason. He unpacks his sheets and his pillows, makes his bed neatly and lays on top of the covers. The air is stale, and he almost wants to take his shirt off, but the quiet pulls him into a cloudy, thoughtless state that's not quite sleep.

He's stirred by the the opening and shutting of cabin. Dean stifles a yawn and sits up, barely missing the banisters as he blinks the tiredness out of his eyes. Below, a boy is lugging a suitcase almost as big as his long, lanky body. The wheel is stuck in a hole in the floorboard, but the kid doesn't even seem to notice. Dean swings his legs over the side of the bunk and slides down, planting his feet lightly on the floor.

"Your wheel is kinda wedged between those two boards," Dean says as he comes over, and the kid turns around suddenly. Dean halts in his steps, the sound of his sneakers skidding across the floor filling his ears. Slowly, a confused smile spreads across his face."Cas!"

It  _is_ him, Dean decides mid-exclamation, and it's only by pure shock that he resists the temptation to close the distance between him and give the guy the hug of his life. He does manage to stumble forward and punch Cas in the shoulder. The boy he met a year ago was small and kind of mousy, with dark brown hair that jutted out of his hat in all different directions. Dean can't help but stare because the same face he'd imagined writing all those freaking letters two is  _there,_ but attached to another body. He's still thin, but his arms and legs seem completely disproportionate to his torso. Cas's hair has also seemed to shed its awkwardness, because it curls out from beneath his scout's hat. Like beach hair.

"Who are you, and what in the hell did you do with my friend Cas?" Dean manages, because he really feels like he's face-to-face with a different person. What else is he supposed to say?

Castiel is smiling, and he shrugs his shoulders. "He had a growth spurt."

"Yeah," Dean scoffs, smirking as he looks his friend from head to toe. "You got a little muscle on you, too," he notes a little quieter, realizing that was really... _gay._ Dean clears his throat and averts his eyes.

"I started running, to clear my head," Cas replies, offering another shrug. "You've grown some too. You look like you've been lifting weights or something."

"It's from all the faces I've pounded in." Dean smiles wide at Castiel's quirked brow, and then he offers to help him unpack. It's an unspoken agreement that he takes the bunk bellow Dean, and that pleases him. A lot.

 

* * *

 

Other campers greet Dean like he  _wasn't_ the kid who walked around with red lipstick marks on his face. They may not remember who Dean is, but Dean's not one to forgive and forget. And nothing is more vivid than the sensation of rejection, just as he was rejected from all their little groups a year ago. Plus, they ain't all that nice to Cas, which pisses him off.

Each insult Cas gets rolls off him, like water rolling down his back, and he pretends like it doesn't soak his clothes. Dean resists the urge to fire off at any little shit that teases him only because Cas specifically tells him, "I can fight my own battles, Dean." It's like he's lumping Dean in with all the other assholes that think he's weak and an easy target.

"I don't wanna bite their heads off because I think you can't, Cas. I want to because no one deserves that shit," Dean explains one night when they get away from the rest of their cabin mates to go to the fire pit that's right next to the lake. They fumble along the beaten trail, where the grass has almost grown over the rocks that lead them to the pit. Cas shines his flashlight down the trail, quiet as Dean speaks. "I get into fights at school, you know. Not because I'm a bully, but because  _they're_ bullies. I fucking hate bullies." Dean cringes when he drops the f-bomb, because he associates saying the word with a whipping from his dad. But he says it for a good reason--to drive his point home.

"Dean..." Cas says quietly, and stops walking. Dean stops, turning to his friend as he shines the flashlight between them. "You are made of something special, I hope you know that."

At a loss, Dean's brows arch high on his forehead, but Castiel doesn't wait for him to say anything, he just continues down the trail like no words had been exchanged at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas unpacks a newspaper from his bag while Dean searches for some sticks to start their fire with. Dean pulls out the bronze lighter Cas got him, and belatedly thanks him in person for the gift. Modest as ever, Cas shrugs off Dean's gratitude like he doesn't deserve it, and Dean ignites the fire.

They sit on a piece of driftwood that's mossy and wet, and their elbows brush every time one of them reaches forward to roast a marshmallow over the flame. It's a weird kind of close that Dean only remembers sharing with Sam, before Sam got annoying that is. Dean imagines that this is what it would feel like if he had a brother his age.

But Dean still has this big brother instinct that makes his lips press when Cas takes his marshmallow out of the fire before it's even cooked right. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "It's cooked best when it's burned, man."

"That... seems to go against logic." Castiel pops his barely-charred marshmallow past his lips and rolls it around beneath his tongue. Dean stares, mouth suddenly dry. "Tastes good this way."

Out of his daze, Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "No, just--let me show you." Dean grabs Cas's hand, pointing the skewer in front of both of them while Dean puts another marshmallow on the end. Then he wraps both hands around Cas's and shoves it into withering flame. Dean quietly notes that he's gotta add some firewood--right after Cas has the perfect s'more.

A few seconds pass, and they both seem to simultaneously become aware of their position: Dean is almost on top of Cas, both of his hands wrapped around Cas's long, pale fingers. Embarrassment floods his face in the form of blush, and Dean clears his throat pointedly--leaning back. "Personal space, you know," he laughs awkwardly. "You know."

"Uh-huh," Cas croaks, deliberately looking into the fire. His blue eyes widen, and he cries, "Dean! It's on fire!"

Laughter erupts from Dean's mouth as he calmly grips Cas tighter,  slowly bringing the skewer from the fire while it's still caught aflame. "S'possed to be, dumbass." And then he blows on the fire softly, watching the white turn black, and the lump of molten sugar slide down the skewer. In order to salvage the thing, Dean reaches forward and plucks the hot thing off with his fingers and--

\--He pushes it against Castiel's lips.

Now Dean's wide eyes mirror Cas's, and his lips part to provide an explanation he cannot vocalize. His only saving grace is that the moment Dean brushes his fingertips against plump lips, he pulls back like he's been burned. Castiel hums slightly, and then his tongue darts out to catch the smear of white, oozing marshmallow foam coating his lips.

And then he lets out this freaking  _sound_ that resonates deep in his chest, and then it reverberates out of his mouth and Dean can't help but shudder at the sound. What the  _hell_ did that marshmallow do to him?

(And how can Dean make him make that sound again?)

Dean makes a valiant attempt to shake himself of the throbbing fascination beneath his skin (and he  _really_ needs to just stop staring at Cas's mouth...), so his go-to reaction is to just simply laugh. He laughs so hard his lungs are depleted of air, his stomach sore and his eyes sealed shut. He can't see how wrecked that freaking marshmallow made Cas with his eyes shut.

"Stop that," Castiel finally mumbles, elbowing Dean hard in the stomach. Dean hisses and elbows back.

"That's no way to repay me for teaching you the  _important_ things in life."

Cas seems to consider this, tilting his head in that really endearing way that reminds Dean of a confused bird. The expression breaks, his brows pressing together and his mouth jutting downward. "That marshmallow was hardly a life lesson."

Dean cocks a brow. "Yeah, sure, you sounded like a cat that just had some warm milk," he counters, and is honestly surprised when Cas blushes so red, and he contrasting blue eyes dart away.

"Well," Cas begins, sighing a little before raising his eyes shyly to meet Dean's. "It was the best marshmallow I've had to date."

The phrasing ignites a dormant sense of competition, one that reminds Dean of times with Sam--reminds Dean that he should think about Cas like a brother, and not like...he doesn't know. He just knows that the least fascinating thing about his best friend should be his lips covered in melted marshmallow, or the pleased sound that comes from his gut when he swallows. It's pretty weird, which is why he wants to change his attitude as fast as he can pop a marshmallow onto another skewer.

"Won't be true for long," Dean challenges with a smirk. "You haven't even had one of these babies with  _chocolate_ _."_

 

* * *

 

Hot chocolate and hot dogs, Twizzlers and nighttime games of Texas Hold'em--that's what camp consisted of outside of the normal boy scout activities. They worked on their badges, went stomping in the creek while they picked up trash, rock climbed and swam in the campground's pool. All the time, Dean couldn't find a second where he wished Cas wasn't at his side.

So when the summer ended, Dean sucked up all the  _girly_ fear and just straight-up asked Cas for his phone number, because he was goddamn tired of waiting for letters just to hear about his friend's day. Cas eagerly agreed that it would be better, and that it was great timing too; apparently for his thirteenth birthday his parents gave him his phone line, and he was eager to have someone to talk to on it-- _finally_.

Dean couldn't say he wasn't thrilled to have that phone number tucked away in his duffel, but the last day of camp did put a damper on it all. Dean waved goodbye to his friend when Cas climbed into his mother's sedan. They both smiled at each other, Cas even more than usual it seemed, because they knew this wasn't the end. The end was far away, no where in sight, if it even existed.

All in all, Dean was hopeful that endings didn't even exist.


	4. A Prelude to Longing - 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing he needs to do is miss yet another person, but he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another (short) chapter since the last one took so long!
> 
> Dean and Cas are 13.

_**A Prelude to Longing - Fall and Winter of 1992** _

Ends. They are as tangible as grains of sand slipping through your fingers in innumerable quantities; as agonizing as a steady burning flame against tender, unknowing skin.

Or a roaring fire--one which sparked in the furnace, gnawed at foundation, and then set ablaze in the Winchester house until little was left.

'Little' was a washing machine, three (scorched) paintings of various flowers (Mary Winchester loved flowers, and the house's now-ashen decor spoke of that love), a hand-me-down neckerchief, one numb husband, and two motherless sons.

While the wreckage was being sort through, they lived in a motel room with two full-sized beds. A thirteen year-old boy shouldn't have to sleep in the same bed as his nine year old brother, but Dean did not speak nor think a foul word against it. Instead he found a little comfort that his brother at least felt safer tucked next to him; he found that the bricks would slide from his chest when he felt Sam's body heat, because that means if trouble strikes, he can save Sam.

(He didn't get Sammy when he smelt the smoke, and for that he feels more guilt than his mind can bear; he won't ever make that mistake again.)

The motel situation lasted a month, but John couldn't handle the town that they'd called home for two years now. So a week before school starts, he collects Sam and Dean and the few belongings they have left. Dean keeps the neckerchief shoved in his pocket, snaps his nervous fingers through the fabric when his father's voice grows tense with grief masked with anger.

Dean mirrors this. He walks straighter, talks less (and when he does, words are terse and biting; Sam hardly even talks to him anymore, but maybe it's better that way). He learns it's so much easier than to be angry than to succumb to the overwhelming sadness that punches in his stomach whenever he looks into the mirror, and sees the bits of his mother he never cared to notice before.

Maybe that's why John won't look at him.

 

* * *

 

Christmas comes, and Dean wakes up early in the morning, struck by realization that sucks the air from his lungs. Thoughts of Christmas morning, nightmares of Mary smiling and wrapping him in deceivingly warm arms before igniting above a flame, a lighter--

He starts, shoving his sweat-soaked sheets off his body, and falls to the floor on his knees. Dean reaches beneath his bed, groping for a shoebox that he keeps things from the fire in. Inside it, a tin can that used to be filled with his dad's cigars, now it holds the remaining contents of Dean's old room. Mostly everything was ruined, either by fire or smoke, but he was able to salvage all his Scout badges and--that goddamned lighter Cas sent him a year ago.

When his fingers touch the bronze casing, his body shakes. He  _forgot_ about Cas, who is most likely the best friend he's ever had. A new wave of guilt comes over him and he resists the urge to flick the lighter open and light it. He doesn't know if he's ready to face fire yet.

He stows away the lighter, stuffing it beneath a few ribbons and his neckerchief, and wishes that Cas's letters had survived the fire. Dean doesn't even have the kid's address anymore, let alone the phone number Dean promised to call him at between summers.

The last thing he needs to do is miss yet another person, but he does. The feeling is a noose around his neck.

He cuts the cord, but the longing leaves his restless mind raw.


	5. Change - Summer of 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The neckerchief is snug around his neck, but Dean likes it. It’s a reminder of the legacy he’s carrying on, even if the rumpled fabric still bares the slightest scent of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is a little late! I just celebrated my graduation and I have had a lot of family in town, and entertaining is a bitch. Without further delay, here is chapter 5~
> 
> Dean and Castiel are 14.

**Change - Summer of 1993**

The bow string digs into Dean’s fingers, the thin wiry fibers cutting off the circulation as he pulls it back as far as it would go. There is a certain fever as the potential energy builds in the stretch of the bow fibers, flows from his thick arm muscles into his instrument of choice. When he releases, the raw physical energy booms in his ear as the string snaps, the arrow hisses through the air. In less time than it takes for Dean to finish exhaling, the arrowhead has pierced its target. Almost in the bull’s eye.

"Very good, Dean," John tells him cooly, pressing an idle hand into Dean’s shoulder. The gesture gives Dean permission to lower his bow, and he tries to not to rustle happily at his father’s praise. He craves it, now. Craves it always, but he’s learned his dad won’t offer it if he shows the slightest bit of pride. It comes along with being a Marine’s son, in which every obstacle must be addressed like a battle.

But it wasn’t like the last year  _hadn’t_ been a war. Indeed it had—inside Dean’s mind and all around him.

"Thanks," Dean breathes and then reaches into his quiver for another arrow. "I’m sure I can get it if I have one more shot. Maybe less wind." No wind blew; all was still except for Dean’s own shaking hands.

"No."

"Sir?"

"You need to clean up, say goodbye to your brother," John elaborates and takes Dean’s bow from him.  (Not my bow, Dean reminds himself; everything he has is borrowed.) "I have to get back to the base by four, so we need to leave at thirteen-hundred."

Dean nods, shuffles away from John with his eyes low. Subservient in every way, but Dean calls it being a good son. He has a lot of that to make up for, anyway.

* * *

Dean dresses with his head turned toward his bed, completely aware of his brother sitting on his own, staring in the opposite direction. This is the kind of privacy a two-bedroom house affords them, and it’s not like Sam hasn’t seen Dean in the buff. But dressing into his boy scout uniform has become more sacred, in a way. His green khakis are finely ironed, rolled at the bottom to show his brown leather boots. He bought these with the money he saved mowing lawns. Dean buttons his shirt up to his neck, catching a brief sight of his reflection in the mirror of their shared dresser.

"I wish I could come with you," Sam says quietly. When Dean turns to him, he sees a child not of ten, but so much smaller. In the wake of their mother’s passing, Sam and Dean have both been a sad pair. But Sam hasn’t looked so sullen in months. It must be because Dean is leaving him, he thinks, and the guilt plunders any and all excitement for camp.

Dean comes to the edge of Sam’s bed, kneels at the boys feet. He wraps his arms around his little brother, an embrace that’s naturally returned. Sam sniffs, holding back something that Dean withholds as well.

"You can, next summer," Dean promises. "You’ll be eleven and you can come with me."

"What about this summer?" Sam goes on, pulling back and searching Dean’s eyes. "I can’t be alone with dad, he’s mean, Dean."

Dean’s brows furrow. “He’s taken good care of us.” He’s on the edge of defensive and pure…confusion. The days of resenting his dad are blurry memories, overwhelmingly shrouded by the bright-glowing memories of his mother. He longs for those days actually, and embraces the comfort he’s found in being the Obedient Son. Dean is confident that Sam will find his niche in the ranks soon, so he purses his lips sympathetically, rubs his thumb across Sam’s shoulder blade. “Dad’s done his best.”

"I miss mom," whispers Sam, so broken and small. "And I’ll miss you."

"Sammy…" Dean hugs him tighter, because he’ll miss his little brother, too. They hardly ever bicker; Dean is his protector and Sam needs him. But he also needs to know that being a good Scout is what dad’s always wanted for Dean, and the satisfaction that comes with his pride. "I’ll miss you like crazy, kid."

Sam sniffs, pulls out of Dean’s embrace so he can peer up at him. “Not a kid, Dean.”

A snort escapes the older brother’s lips, and he finds his fingers rustling through the younger’s messy mop of brown hair. “Sure thing, short stop.”

* * *

The neckerchief is snug around his neck, but Dean likes it. It’s a reminder of the legacy he’s carrying on, even if the rumpled fabric still bares the slightest scent of smoke. A scent that, when he’s not otherwise distracted, causes bile to rise in his throat.

The first two days of camp are actually two days  _before_ camp officially starts. John friend from the Marines Bobby Singer, who’s also the camp director, let him come early to help with the set up. Dad pitched the idea to Dean, not really as a question, but Dean really didn’t mind.

Bobby is really cool, Dean decides. Although he’d seen the old man rolling around in his (admittedly) badass wheelchair, he’d never talked to Bobby until his dad directly introduced them.

The first thing Bobby said to Dean wasn’t “I’m sorry about your mom” or “my condolences”, like every other greeting had been for the last six months. In fact, Bobby ran his eyes down the boy, and they landed on his right hand. “I see you got some callouses there, boy,” Bobby had said, and Dean raised his palm to get a better look. Right on the joins of his middle three fingers were thick patches of skin, meant for pulling bow strings. “I take it you like archery?”

And that’s how Dean got to go down by the lake, where the archery range is, a full two days before anyone else. Bobby’s content to let Dean practices while he reads a thick, leather-bound book in the shade. It’s the first time Dean shoots arrows without his father standing over his shoulder.

* * *

Monday comes, and the other campers begin to pour in. He can’t believe that it’s his third year here, which is the longest he’s ever been in one place. Even though after—after the fire, they moved to a different county, Camp McKinny is still close. Dean savors the constancy, the familiar faces as he lugs his bag through the lodge to find the cabin listings. He’s stayed in one of empty counselor cabins the past two nights, but he thinks that his proper cabin will be the same one he’s always stayed in.

He finds his name on the Jefferson cabin listing, and draws his finger down the lines. He looks at the names, all familiar. Dean swallows hard when he doesn’t see one name in particular assigned to his cabin.

Dean looks at every single cabin listing—a total of twenty sheets of paper sprawled across a ceramic wall. Other kids grumble as Dean gets in their way, but he just tells ‘em to suck it up, he’s just looking for his friend’s name.

"I’m in Washington," a voice grumbles from behind him.

"Yeah, good for you," Dean throws over his shoulder without ceasing the search for Cas’s name. A few seconds pass, and a chill hastens up his spine, a sensation telling him something that his mind hasn’t discovered. It compels him to jerk around, and there are blue eyes directly in front of him. Like, as in less than a  _step_ in front of him, and neither of them move. There is a faint smell of cologne filling Dean’s nostrils as his eyes flicker over the familiar face.

Striking, narrowed blue eyes stare back, and Dean swallows deliberately.

"—Cas," he chokes out, and the syllable is far more broken than he ever intended. The only thing that stops Dean from throwing his arms around the kid is the crowded space the duffle bag in his arms.

Also, Castiel certainly doesn’t look like he wants to hug Dean.

The smile that almost grew on Dean’s lips falls away before it even sees the light of day. As campers continue to shove by them, they both silently agree to convene in a less crowed area. Dean leads the way, finding a couch in the middle of the lodge beneath a skylight, and throwing his backs onto the ground. Cas does more or less the same, a little more careful, and they both sit down next to each other. The couch is consuming and comfortable, but they are mirror  _stiff_ images of one another.

"So, Washington?" Dean says casually, throwing discomfort to the wind (hoping that Cas will just relax, and then he can chill _for real_ ) and lays his arm over the back of the couch. Their bodies angle toward each other, and Cas looks at him with an unsteady glare. Trying to discern its cause, Dean squints at him. “Why do you look like you want to kill me? And why didn’t you request the Jefferson cabin?”

Too snappy, Dean realizes too late. Cas stands up quickly, turns before Dean can even protest. And then he begins to walk away and Dean can’t get a word to come out—they all hang dead on his tongue in shock.

But Cas pauses, and turns back to Dean with an exasperated,  _angry_ expression that mars his striking, round blue eyes, pulls at full chapped lips, and is set in his (newly) sharpened jaw.

"I’m sorry, Dean, but I merely assumed you did not want to bunk with me, as you have not—communicated with me in over seven months."

Has it really been that long? The passage of time slams into him like a wrecking ball. Not even a year has gone by since he’s seen his mother, her pink-colored cheeks and white smile, felt her hand along his shoulder so gentle and casual, yet he craves it still.

Dean’s entire being throbs, seizes tightly at his chest. He doesn’t let himself feel sad, just as he has for months. Instead he doesn’t wear a brave face, he wears an angry one. It’s the nearest emotion he can grasp without bursting into tears.

"Did you ever think that I couldn’t—" Dean starts, his voice raised above a normal indoor volume. People begun to turn around. They stared. And Dean didn’t care. "I don’t live to tip toe around your god damned baby feelings, Cas."

"Then  _don’t,”_ Castiel challenges, which was a kind of response Dean did not expect. He stares at the boy, eyes lingering a little too long, before turning his gaze.

"Fine," he grumbles.

And in return, a mocking  _"fine"_ comes from Cas too.

In return, Dean is alone again.

* * *

Dean doesn’t really make friends in his cabin, but he does learn to coexist. Unlike last year, the other boys don’t flock to be his friend. They must remember Dean giving them the proverbial middle finger last summer, for being two-faced and shit. Dean likes it this way, though; he silently prides himself when his bunkmates regard Dean like… like someone who should be respected. It’s not the kind of treatment he’s used to getting, ever.

It feels good to feel worth something again.

But it also feels horrible, constantly, without Cas there.

In the days that follow his and Cas’s little fight at the lodge, Dean finds himself quietly miserable. He spends his days trying to avoid the blue-eyed boy in the mess hall and all of the camp activities, and then he spends his nights playing with his goddamned lighter and wishing his friend was below him. In the bunk below him that is. Yeah.

The first week of camp passes, filled with the usual activities: rock climbing, badge work, and then they end up playing some kind of sport at night. Some of the older campers among various cabins organized a softball tournament. Double elimination. They put  Dean on third base because they assume he’s not that good due to his smallness—which, he isn’t, but Dean still resents it. He’s due for a growth spurt.

The bases are blow-up kiddie pools, filled with water, which is pretty redundant since McKinny also had a few days of heavy rain that left the ground muddy and saturated. Dean situates himself in the center of the pool, not wanting to get his sneakers too dirty.

It doesn’t really work out for Dean that way.

He  _knows_ he’s done when he comes out to the makeshift baseball diamond with the rest of his cabinmates in Jefferson and discovers that they’re facing off against the Washington boys. One of the older Scouts points to third base, and gives Dean a pointed look. He puts on his glove as he glares back at the older guy, gives him the middle finger (but it’s covered up with his glove, but it’s the thought that counts), and then saunters to his place in the kiddie pool.

The first kid that bats is scrawny, probably a distraction to get their pitcher’s guard down. Dean rolls his eyes when the kid freaking bunts the ball and  _tries_ to make a run for first base. Actually, it was more like a waddle. And he  _so_ didn’t make it.

To Dean’s surprise and, honestly, embarrassment, his team fell for the rouse and the next two guys who bat take it all the way to third base, where Dean stops them cold. His cabinmates cheer him on, and Dean rolls his eyes. What did Cas always say? ‘Oh ye of little faith’? That must’ve been a bible thing, but it’s pretty relevant now.

The next guy that steps up to bat is tanned, lean and a little lanky, and black hair curls over his ears. It takes a few seconds to register that the guy is  _Cas,_ only because he’s wearing basketball shorts and a top that he  _must_ have borrowed—a wifebeater that clings to his chest, but drags around his arms so that the sides of his stomach glisten with sweat in the daylight. Dean swallows, because even from the distance he feels Cas’s gaze on him.

But those eyes slip away as soon as the play begins, and the ball slips from the pitcher’s hand. Cas swings, and the ball cracks against the side and the rest is history.

Cas is freaking  _fast_. The ball is soaring—Dean watches it go somewhere over second base. Just as Cas sprints past first, an outfielder snags it out of the air, and sends it toward second base. Too late, as Cas steps off it as soon as the second baseman catches it. But his reflexes are steadfast. The ball is flying toward Dean’s raised mitt before he can even register that Cas is about to collide with him.

Dean yelps as the other boy slips into the kiddie pool, right next to Dean, and they both flail as the plastic ground ripples beneath them. Instinctively, Dean reaches out with his gloved hand and the ball slips away as he grapples to Cas for balance, but he’s not nearly as steady as Dean had hoped. One moment they are struggling for balance, and the next the water sloshes out of the pool as it peels off the ground.

Meanwhile, Dean lay half on top of Cas’s chest, and halfway submerged in the fresh new mud made with the kiddie pool water and moist dirt below.

"Damn it," Dean hisses, feeling his face dampen with a splash of brown water. He spits when he tastes it on his tongue.

"Hng," comes a sound from beneath him.  _Cas._ He’s frozen in place, and his eyes creep open slowly. He’s terrified to have his fear confirmed, that he’s pinning Cas down while he lay on his chest. He feels rapid breathing against his stomach, while wide blue eyes are mere inches from him. Dean can smell mint, rolling past Cas’s lips into his parted ones.

Cas’s out means that the teams switch sides, and someone whistles, which prompts Dean to quickly jerk out of Cas’s space entirely, rolling onto his back, doing a fine job of smearing mud not only along his shorts and tshirt, but his forearms and calves too. 

"You’re out," Dean mutters as an unintentional smirk grows on his lips. His gaze is craned toward Cas, who tilts his head to the side to reveal a glare. But, Dean thinks, there isn’t a blaze of anger behind it. He looks petulant. Annoyed.

Dean chuckles, a few short breaths, before the sound of another whistle breaks them both from the trance. And then laughter erupts, followed by one of Dean’s (asshole) cabinmates comes over and splashes mud onto Dean’s pants. Way to kick a dude while he’s down. Dean will be sure to make him pay for that sooner rather than later. “Better go shower off the smell of _Washington_ off your ass, Winchester,” the guys snorts, “If you really want to, that is.”

"Why don’t you get down here and suck my _dick_ , Anderson,” he spits, fiery and blushing despite himself. He wipes his face to hide the latter, but Cas doesn’t miss a beat. He sits up as Dean pushes himself off the ground, and then offers a muddy, slippery hand.

Cas stares at it for a beat, and then grabs on tight. His fingers are covered, too, and the slippery feeling of their skin touching makes Dean’s flipflop for unexplained reasons—but the sensation is muted when Cas mutters, “Thank you, Dean.” 

"Um," he starts, pausing as he deliberately looks down at his hand, holding Cas’s still. He makes himself let go, and that’s pretty damn scary—because he didn’t really want to. "Sorry I made you fall."

"It was a fair play, obviously," Castiel replies, gesturing to the players all around the field. They’re swapping sides now, since Cas was the third out. "No harm, no foul."

There was a lot of harm done to their clothes, Dean thinks, looking down at himself and frowning. He hates doing laundry, but he can already tell that these stains are going to set in if he doesn’t get them at least soaking soon. And there’s no way in hell he’s gonna spend the rest of his day caked with mud  _everywhere._

"Dunno about you," Dean wipes his palms against his thighs, trying to get off as much mud as he can before wiping his face. "I need a shower. Bad."

"I’ll come with," Castiel says with a nod. "If you let me stop by my cabin and get a change of clothes—"

"I’ll let you have some of mine," Dean cuts in, and  _there’s_ that goddamned blush again. He clears his throat, to elaborate. “I mean, Jefferson is right by the shower house. Washington’s on the other side of the freaking camp.”

"…If you’re sure," Cas mumbles uncertainly.

"I’m sure."


	6. Revelations - Summer of 1993 (continued)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes fall so slightly, eyeing Cas’s legs, and he is hit with a profound thought: those are his blue jeans. They cling a little too tight in the tops of Cas’s thighs, but ride a little high on his ankles, revealing a patch of skin just above his socks—also Dean’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after the previous chapter. Dean and Cas are still fourteen.  
> Small warning for underage themes.

**Revelations - Summer of 1993**

The shower house is naturally humid in the dead middle of summer. It’s part of the charm, Dean guesses; it almost makes it okay that the water is ice cold ninety percent of the time. Honestly, he is crossing his fingers for a hot shower, because he has mud freaking  _everywhere._ It dripped under his clothes, sliding along the sweat-slick path of his skin into his arm pits, and he’s pretty sure it somehow is caked in to his (almost-there) chest hair.  _Gross._

They hit the showers, finding the place pretty empty. Which makes sense, given it’s the middle of the day. The fewer people the better who bear witness to their muddiness, the better. Dean begins to untie his shoes—which are dripping, of-freaking-course—and notices that Cas kind of limps, putting his weight awkwardly on his left foot rather than his right.

"You alright?"

Castiel squints, following Dean’s lead and toeing out of his shoes. “I. I’m fine.” 

"Don’t look it," Dean challenges. "Maybe you’re a sore loser?"

"Soreness has nothing to do with it, I assure you," Castiel replies, grudgingly casting a glare down his own body. "There is dirt. Everywhere, and it’s not comfortable. At all."

“ _Oh.”_ Dean pulls of his hoes and then brings his fingers the the draw string of his pants, and waits. He’s  _not_ about to undress in front of Cas, even if they’re bound to see each others bits and shit while in to the not-so-private showers. And if he’s interpreting Cas correctly, he probably doesn’t want to see where exactly Cas got dirty.

They silently agree to turn away from each other, and tuck their clothes into separate cubbies. Dean sighs when he is finally out of his dripping underwear, and is grateful that he won’t have to wear them back to the cabin. In a duffle next to the cubbies are two changes of clothes, one for him, the other for Cas.

He hears water erupt from behind him and glances over his shoulder. He sees Cas standing under a stream of water, naked as the day he was born, and  _covered_ in mud. It’s on his back, his legs…his ass. Dean blinks a few times, too many times, and then rips his eyes away from  _there._ What the hell. He did not just stare at Cas’s ass.

The embarrassment floods into his cheeks, blush creeping even down onto his chest. Dean quickly pads over to a shower head, turns it on, and drowns out the sound of his own thoughts with the beating of water against his shoulders, his face. The rest of his body follows, and he certainly doesn’t deliberately face away from Cas to avoid any itches—temptations—to trace the lines of dried dirt down his friend’s body.

 

* * *

 

Instead of returning to normal camp activities, Dean invites Cas to go for a hike. Even though things are pretty tense between them, there is still more ease with Cas than there is with anyone else in the camp. Dean’s found that his excitement over coming to camp is not embedded in the desire to see old friends.

Well, maybe one friend. But mostly he just likes the outdoors…with that one friend.

But walking with Cas is just as natural as it’s ever been. It’s a silent hike through a trail, which is nearly grown over after a year of disuse—it’s not one that the campers usually go through. It leads down to that fire pit by the lake. When they get there, they silently agree to sit together on the mossy driftwood, facing the shore of the lake, and the sunset too.

Dean shifts as the jagged bark digs into the back of his thighs, and he regrets wearing shorts for the hike. But, the blistering heat make it just about impossible to survive with jeans—except Cas is wearing them and doing just fine.

His eyes fall so slightly, eyeing Cas’s legs, and he is hit with a profound thought: those are  _his_ blue jeans. They cling a little too tight in the tops of Cas’s thighs, but ride a little high on his ankles, revealing a patch of skin just above his socks—also Dean’s.

"Dean," Cas murmurs very suddenly, stunning Dean momentarily while he rushes himself to look away. Blush blossoms in Dean’s cheeks and he forces a cough, which gives him the opportunity to obscure the redness.

He takes his sweet time to calm the embarrassed thumping of his heart before replying. “Uh, yeah.”

"I," comes a very small, yet incredibly  _rough_ response. Too gravely for a fourteen year-old, but maybe Dean’s bias because his voice is still stuck in the upper not-quite-a-girl range. It makes his skin cold, but his face deepens in hue  _again._ "I want you to know that I, that I understand."

"Understand?" Dean repeats, brows furrowing. "Understand what?"

"That I am not the most… _cool_ person. I am actually very lame, and your attentions in the last few years don’t constitute a contract which requires you to—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Dean says quickly, loudly, more on instinct than actual logic. “I don’t even get what you’re trying to say, man. There is…no…obligation, or whatever, between us.” He wags a finger between them, meeting Castiel’s serious gaze with narrow eyes. “And yeah, you can be lame sometimes. But Cas, you’re the coolest guy I’ve ever met.”

That response hangs in the air, the silence tangible between them for a beat.

"I don’t know how to reply," says Cas, voice still so small that Dean thinks that if the sound came between his lips in visible slivers, it would take tweezers to snatch them out of the air.

An exhale comes from Dean, tired and hesitant. “Then don’t,” he offers. “Really, I should explain. Last fall my…my mom died. House fire.”

He hasn’t told anyone this, ever. He never wanted anyone to know that he has no mom because he didn’t want the pitying looks, the ‘sorries’ and food-lined condolences that seemed so  _fake._ Superficial. They didn’t love Mary Winchester like Dean did, so he didn’t want their pity.

But Cas doesn’t look at him like that. Like he expected any different. Cas always has this way of ripping up the rest of society’s rulebook. He doesn’t understand how people typically work, but Cas definitely can read Dean easily as he breathes.

So of course he hugs Dean, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Cas forces Dean’s body to turn so their chests press even together, and their legs jut up against each other, awkwardly weaving together as Cas deepens their embrace.

Dean wonders if Cas heard his breath hitch, when Cas pressed his palm into the back of Dean’s neck and their cheeks touch. Dean was hot before, but now Cas pressed up to him is pleasantly warm. Like when he hugs Sam, he feels grounded by this, but there is a bubbling deep in his stomach that is certainly not brotherly.

Before he can worry that Cas thinks there is something weird about Dean clinging, pressing his nose into the exposed skin of his neck, Cas grasps Dean by his shoulders, finds Dean’s eyes. They burn, they _fiercely_ stare back at Dean.

"I am sorry, Dean," he says so earnestly that Dean can believe that he means it, that it isn’t some cultural ritual that meeds pigeon shit. Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulders even harder, fingers digging into the skin, grounding Dean in that way only Cas know he needed. "Had I known… I would have tried harder to find you, when you moved."

"—I could have tried, too," Dean mutters, voice thick. Damn, is he crying? Shamefully he wipes at his eyes, but Castiel pays no attention to that, shaking his head. "I lost your phone number, and I only kept your address on those letters—" And now he just told Cas he holds onto the letters, but he doesn’t even feel embarrassed by that. Instead, he’s just upset by the fact that he doesn’t have them anymore.

"It’s not your fault."

Dean, in his heart, doesn’t believe it. He did not set a flame, but he has felt the burn, and it whispers his name as if he  _is_ the culprit. His dad’s made it seem that way, with all the distance, with the molding of Dean into a soldier. A good son, yes, but more accurately a solider. It  _shouldn’t_ feel like punishment, but it is. It’s his fault.

"Feels like it some times," he whispers back.

Cas’s fingers loosen, and then skate down his shoulders, down his arms. Where Dean’s hands settled on his thighs, Cas’s own cover them. It’s too close, too much, yet not enough.

So knowing, and so honest, Cas replies, “I know.”


	7. Contact - Fall of 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still don't like how that boy clings to you."
> 
> "He's my friend," Dean says, pleading.
> 
> "You have friends here, good boys in that troop of yours. I know some of their daddies. Good men."
> 
> "Cas is good, too--"
> 
> John slams his fist into a cabinet, rattling the glass dishes inside. "Enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas are 14.

**__Contact - Fall of 1993_ _ **

 

> _Dear Dean,_
> 
> _Even though by the time you receive this we have most likely talked to each other several times over the phone, I can't help but find myself endeared by this mode of communication. At my school, they require us to take a Calligraphy elective and one of my weekly assignments is to write a letter. Hence the fancy script, my apologies._
> 
> _Though it does not feel like an assignment, I also do not expect you to write back. Talking with you over the phone will always suffice, to say the least._
> 
> _I hope your first year of high school is going better than mine. I frankly would rather be anywhere but here._
> 
> _Best luck and wishes,_
> 
> _Cas_

Dean smirks, privately thumbing across the smeared, elaborate signature of Cas's name. Three letters, yet they fill a space in Dean's mind that feels so empty in the spaces of time between summer camp. They spell out his best friends name, a name he is so glad to see on paper, made by Cas's own hand.

Dean peers around his and Sam's shared room, making sure that he's still alone, and then falls to the floor. He fishes out the old cigar can, which is dusty and maybe a little more tarnished than the last time he opened it up. He folds the letter in half, but keeps the envelope so he can have Cas's return address on hand.

It's the first letter he's received since his mom died, Dean realizes sadly. And maybe that fact comes to the forefront of his mind because the anniversary of her death is fast approaching. He's tried to keep himself occupied by getting involved with his troop, but the kids in it are not unlike the ones he's known at Camp McKinny. They are dutiful, racking up badges like they're freaking Pokemon trading cards. The patriotism which has been pounded into  _Dean's_ head is lost among them, but that's probably just because Dean's a Marine's son and a damn good Marine at that.

So he doesn't feel connected--so what? He's never had a genuinely strong connection with anyone. Yeah, he's easy around people. He's good at giving others what they want, even at his own expense. Dean is the Good Son for his dad, the Protective Big Brother for Sam, and That One Kid You Don't Fuck With to just about everyone else.

Except one little weird dude.

Dean huffs out a breath of frustration and shoves the can back under his bed, because  _wow_ he really does sound like a baby for being so hung up on Cas. Or maybe, he hopes, they're hung up on each other. For whatever reason, Cas likes Dean, and Dean really does like Cas.

If anyone heard his thoughts right now, they'd think Dean was crushing on Castiel so bad. And he'd swear up and down it wasn't true.

 

* * *

 

The letters came and went, but more often than not they were just a means to say the private, more personal thoughts that neither Cas nor Dean could say over the phone.

Dean remembers, once, writing,  _I think about you at school a lot, when I see groups of people in the cafeteria laughing and having fun. I have friends, you know, but none of them are you_.

He would outright deny ever saying anything of the sort, but he isn't ashamed when Castiel replies with another letter  _returning_ the sentiments rather than labeling him a stalker-y weirdo. And it feels so  _weird,_ writing this all down with permanent ink, forever accessible. It feels so much safer than words--which, when spoken aloud, are much more fleeting. Less permanent, easier to take back. Yet, it feels more vulnerable, so neither of them dare convey those silent feelings.

Late October, Dean and Cas talk over their respective Halloween plans. Cas apparently wants to go as Billy freaking Nye, who apparently is this super nerdy (perfect for Cas, he guesses) scientist who has swept the nation with these corny informational science videos. Dean's biology teacher made them watch one about the environment. It sucked.

But Cas  _loves_ the guy.

"He has a great passion for his job," Castiel tells him, and Dean's just laying in his bed on the cordless, praying his dad won't get home and make Dean get off the phone. "How else could he tolerate making informational videos that aren't... _Discovery Channel_ dull?"

"I thought you loved watching gazelles eat grass and shit," Dean replies, smirking into the mouthpiece as he adjusts a pillow behind his neck.

"I do, but I am also dull, so I am a good authority on what is dull."

Dean scoffs at that, "You aren't  _dull,_ you're just a different flavor of awesome. You'd make a great Science Guy."

"Thank you Dean," Cas says, shy-sounding. "How about you? What are your plans for Halloween?"

"Well, my friend Ash and I are going as Freddy and Jason. Horror is kind of our thing."

"Who will you be?"

"Jason, of course."

Castiel snorts and says, "Of course. Just don't come to camp next summer and kill everyone, alright?"

His voice drops, and Dean licks his lips. "I make no promises," he replies.

"Dean!"

A deep, guttural laugh builds in Dean's stomach, but all humor is cut short when he hears the garage door roaring to life. His dad is home, and Dean suddenly remembers that he was supposed to lay out hamburger for dinner. "Shit, Cas, I gotta go. I'll call you in a couple of days." He clicks the END button before he has a chance to hear Cas respond, and Dean shrugs off the bed so that he can put the phone back on its charger.

Still, John Winchester knows what he was doing; his first words after he tosses his keys into a bowel in the kitchen are, "You done gossiping with your goddamned girlfriend, yet?"

"It was just Cas," Dean says in a truly  _non_ challenging voice--like most of his responses, firm but not defensive. Not offensive.

"And?" John says, raising his brows. "You're supposed to be helping Sam with his homework, not chit-chatting and writing love letters."

Sam's in the dining room, hunched over a textbook. He looks up though, peering into the kitchen with pinched lips. "I don't need Dean's help, Dad. I'm about smarter than him, don't you think?" he informs them both, serious but teasing Dean in that way they always poke fun at each other. 

John huffs an impatient breath. He doesn't like Sam standing up for himself, which Dean  _hates_ but doesn't object to. Not yet, because he still wants to please his father so badly. "I still don't like how that boy clings to you."

"He's my _friend,"_ Dean says, pleading.

"You have friends here, good boys in that troop of yours. I know some of their daddies. Good men."

"Cas is good, too--"

John slams his fist into a cabinet, rattling the glass dishes inside. "Enough," he says with a note of finality and Dean drops his eyes to the floor.

He'd rather that fist keep punching cabinets than his face.

 

* * *

 

Halloween comes and goes, and the next letter Castiel sends he encloses a polaroid picture of his costume. But Dean doesn't see it, not until several weeks pass and the envelope that lay in his nightstand drawer is finally opened.

Dean, desperate to get his dad off his back, found a worth distraction.

Her name is Lisa--a friend of Ash's whom he met on Halloween. She was dressed up like Madonna, barely wearing a shred of fabric except to cover her exceptionally perky breasts and a glittery skirt. She's in Dean's grade, but she's a year older and  _damn_ she was really hot. And she liked Dean--she liked his freckles, his smile, and his Halloween costume.

So naturally, he shared his first kiss with her. And, as his hormones chased the attraction, he lost his virginity to her. In a fucking Jason costume with a Madonna look-alike.  _Fuck._

Needless to say, his dad didn't make any more implications. In fact, he likes Lisa, because she's sweet and polite and it's obvious Dean's attracted to her. Who wouldn't be? She's freaking  _gorgeous_ and smart and hangs on Dean so loyally--

And Sam likes her--that's the most rewarding thing  _ever._

But a big wrench is thrown in his new found confidence in his love for Lisa when Dean finally gets around to opening that letter. It's a little bent around the edges, like the picture went through hell, but the photograph itself is untarnished. Dean's heart drops into his stomach when he sees a smile so familiar, so missed, so bright. Cas is fucking happy to be in a white lab coat over an ugly printed suit--he is proud as his lithe fingers pluck the ends of his bright blue and white polk-a-dotted bow tie. _  
_

He can just hear Cas saying, or deadpanning rather, " _Science rules!"_

Before he knows what has hit him, Dean is dialing Cas's phone number. Though Dean refrained from opening the letter so long, they have still talked periodically, and briefly. But Dean suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to hear his friends voice--

The phone rings twice, and then a voice says, "Hello?"

Dean inhales and covers the mouthpiece, and exhales shakily as his whole body is enveloped with an eerie sense of calm. Then he finally replies, "Hey Cas, what's up?"

"Homework," he replies, heaving a sigh. "My English teacher assigned us this horrible assignment where we have to write about a controversial topic."

Dean almost asks what the topic is, but his mind whirrs and he knows that he really doesn't want to talk about Cas's homework. "I just now got--I mean, opened, your letter. With the picture."

A silence hangs over the line, and Dean hears a rustle of paper, then an, "Oh?" The question is tagged on to the end of the breath, nervously inquiring Dean's thoughts.

"It was really nerdy," Dean laughs, chewing on his lower lip. "But you looked really good, Cas. Really good."

"Ah...thank you?"

Dean blinks a few times and his eyes widen. Shit, he probably sounds really creepy now. "But, um, you sure didn't look good as my girlfriend."

Another silence comes and goes, and Dean almost thinks that they were disconnected until Castiel suddenly says, "Since when do you have a girlfriend?"

"Since Halloween," Dean replies smugly. "We  _did_ it, can you believe that?"

"No," Castiel says quickly. "I mean, I believe you but--but you have never even mentioned her. I--I am confused."

"Don't be man, just say congrats and--I don't know, maybe she has a friend who's into the long distance thing. I'll ask for you."

"I don't--"

"What kind of girl are you even into?" Dean interrupts, musingly sitting back as his thoughts reel. The image of his friend shirtless and pressed against an anonymous warm body fills his thoughts, and he envisions curves and long hair. Dean ignores the sick feeling in his stomach, closing his eyes. "Maybe a geeky girl, like you."

"Dean, I have no interest in girls," Cas assures him.

" _Believe me,_ until one grabs you by the hips and takes you to town, you don't know the meaning of 'interest'."

The line goes dead suddenly, leaving Dean stunned. More than stunned, he's numb. He drops the phone into his lap, stares at the key pad. Something tells Dean that he said all the wrong things.

 

* * *

 

 

> _Dear Cas,_
> 
> _I'm an asshole. You don't have to tell me twice. You take my calls but I hear that your angry. I didn't mean to get involved in your business like that, I should have heard that you weren't really feeling that conversation._
> 
> _I'm sorry, that's what I'm trying to get at. I look at that stupid picture all the time and I wish you were here with me. I want to hear you laugh again, man. Beside my brother and dad, you are the most important person to me. More important than Lisa. Even though I really really like her, she's never seen what you've seen. You know all of me._
> 
> _I sometimes feel like I don't know all of you, but when you're ready, I will accept all of you. Can't wait._
> 
> _Keeping it real,_
> 
> _Dean_
> 
> _P.S. Here's a pic of me in_ my  _costume, sans mask. I made the machete out of tin foil because I'm awesome._

 

 

 


	8. Truth - Summer of 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You had a growth spurt too, Dean." Dean's face burns when he feels Cas's eyes trace over his body, almost appreciative. Except that would be weird so Dean pretends not to notice--except there's no pretending when your face is an open book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! Get ready for a triple update so this version is completely caught up with the Tumblr version ;)
> 
> Dean and Cas are 15.

**Truth - Summer of 1994**

Sam fidgets in that annoying way that kids always do; the moment Dean ever asks him to sit still, the world suddenly becomes  _too_ still and the kid has to figure-eight his ankles and roll his back like he's doing the vertical worm.

"Hold  _on_ , I'm almost done," Dean says, grinding his teeth as he secures one more knot in Sam's neckerchief. Well, it was  _his._  Or more specifically their dads'. But, as most things in their household, the neckerchief is now Sam's. It's dusty and Dean's had to trim way too much thread for it to still be maintaining its fabric-y appearance, but Sam wanted to carry on the family tradition. And Dean can't really argue, but he secretly wanted to give Sam a chance  _not_ to inherit this family's sloppy thirds for once.

Sam huffs a breath of discomfort, "Sorry, it's just stuffy in here."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mumbles, partly messing with his brother and partly agreeing.

Their shared bedroom could pass as a storage closet. The light from the only window behind him caused a shadow to stretch across the room. Half of it was in darkness, just from Dean obstructing the natural light. The lamp on their nightstand is in need of a new bulb, Dean notes, but he thinks that he can address that after they get back from camp in two weeks.

Once that last knot is secured, the corners of the fabric dipping down the front of Sam's khaki colored button-up, Dean sits back and admires his work. He's done this to himself for years, and his father doing it for him before that, so he feels pride rather than shame for giving him the old Winchester neckerchief.

"You look like a dork," Dean comments.

Sam scoffs and counters quickly, "Well you look  _exactly_ the same, minus my dimples. So who's the bigger dork?"

Dean looks up and purses his lips. "At least I'm not a bitch."

With that, Sam gives him an obligatory punch in the arm. Dean tries not to wince, but his little brother's got an arm on him these days. That one may just bruise. As his brother bitterly mutters, "Jerk," Dean thinks that Sam may be growing up on him.

And that's terrifying.

 

* * *

 

Dad's Impala is big enough for two boys' suitcases filled to last two weeks. It's also big enough for Dean's bow, a duffel filled with Sam's favorite books, and of course two brothers that are getting too big to sit next to their dad in the front bench seat.

So Dean claims shot gun and resists the urge to prop his feet up on the dash ( _"Get your goddamned feet down, Dean. My car ain't your footrest.")_ while Sam nods off in the backseat wedged up against their shit. Dean stares out the window, the scenery a blur of green until the treeline breaks and is replaced with the image of an expansive lake, and then the lodge of Camp McKinny comes into view and Dean is home.

"Yo, Sammy," Dean calls as he turns around in his seat. The seatbelt strains against his chest as he bends back to shove Sam. He's a heavy sleeper. "We're here."

His little brother's sleeping face erupts with excitement. Dean wishes he knew what it felt like, being excited for camp. He always begrudged having to leave, but obliged his dad's wishes. Camp McKinny changed his attitude completely though. The counselors were great, but it was mostly Cas that morphed his perspective.

Dean feels that stupid clench in his stomach, telling him to feel guilty for not keeping up with Cas like he should've over the summer. They exchanged letters periodically; that aspect of their relationship didn't change much. But the phone calls were far and few between. It was hard to listen to Cas talk and not fear saying something stupid, and then face that horrible disappointing feeling that came when Cas hung up on him.

He deserved that, though. Dean doesn't have many concepts of boundaries. Which is ironic considering the lengths to he's gone to keep his walls high--or at least, he only lets them down when he thinks no one is watching.

He hopes that this summer goes better than the last. Dean bites his lip as they roll up to the lodge, and he _prays_ that he'll see Cas and they'll fall right into their natural roles. Who knows, this summer may be  _the best_ yet, because Cas will finally meet Sam! Sam, who is ten times better than Dean; who will probably have more things to talk about with Cas, because they are both so freaking smart.

Dean smiles, because Sam is going to have so much fun with them.

As soon as the car comes to a stop, Sam throws open the door and races to the trunk. Dad gets out next, looking pointedly at Dean and then jerking his chin. Go help Sam, it says, as if Dean wasn't already on his way.

Once all their things are all out of the car, they move inside. While their dad goes to sign them in, Dean tells Sam to wait in the lounging area while he goes to check out their cabin assignments. Sam requested to be in Jefferson with him, to Dean's relief, so now he just has to confirm that he didn't piss Cas off enough to--again--make him switch cabins.

Dean looks, and then exhales.  _Castiel Novak_ is in the Jefferson cabin.

He is so relieved that he can't even comprehend the weight of the worry that must have been lingering in his thoughts. Dean shakily rubs a hand down his arm, willing the gooseflesh to settle the hell down, as he finds his way back to Sam.

His brother isn't alone.

Dean's first instinct--his big brother instinct, of course--is to crash whatever party the weirdo talking to is brother  _thinks_ he is going to have. But as he gets closer and his footsteps get heavier--madder--the silhouette of a guy turns into the body of a really  _toned_ and tanned teenage guy with messy hair and familiar cerulean eyes that rise to meet his own in an instant of panic and uncertainty.

"Cas," Dean says, the name coming off his lips as a sigh. His body relaxes, and he takes in the sight of his friend. Built like a runner, even more so than the last time Dean saw him. Skin kissed by the sun, golden rather than the sickly pale like the  _first_ time Dean saw him. He tries not to think it--but they're  _his_ thoughts so who's it gonna hurt?--but Cas just gets better looking every year. He wonders if he is still that lanky kid he saw in the mirror years ago. Dean doesn't look in the mirror very often, especially not for vanity.

Before Dean can say another word, Sam speaks up. "Cas was just telling me about his first day at camp! About how you sat together because no one liked you."

"I didn't say that," Castiel interjects. "I said no one liked  _me._ Dean, well, was far more likable. Still is."

"Shut up," Dean laughs, fighting through his blush to bump his fist with Cas's. Maybe they can properly greet each other later, without so many people around. "What's up with you man? Checked in and everything?"

"Yes," Castiel sighs tiredly. "I have been here for hours. My mother must be convinced that there is a merit badge for being early. I have been asleep on this couch until Sam woke me up."

"I recognized him from that picture you have pinned to your bedpost. Except you look older now."

Dean freezes like Sam's just exposed some big secret, but Cas doesn't even miss a beat. "I had another growth spurt," he grumbles. "I was miserable all through the holidays."

"I know that feeling," Dean agrees.

"You had a growth spurt too, Dean." Dean's face burns when he feels Cas's eyes trace over his body, almost appreciative. Except that would be weird so Dean pretends not to notice--except there's no pretending when your face is an open book.

Dean gulps. "Yep, well, it was bound to happen sooner or later," he laughs. There is an attempt in there to stop staring directly into Cas's eyes but it's lost right up until Sam clears his throat.

"So, um, now that we found Cas, we can go put our stuff up?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, grabbing his duffle with as much aggression as possible. Being angry is an apt distraction.

 

* * *

 

The first week is a blur--it's more fun than any other year Dean can remember. Most brothers aren't like Sam and Dean; when Dean isn't with Sam, he doesn't feel quite complete. Not that he needs Sam to have fun, but having his other half completes any experience. And he can't say that Cas and Sam getting along so splendidly doesn't improve upon that blissful, happy feeling in his chest.

As always, his favorite part of the week is archery. Even though Dean has been trying to teach Sam at home, he doesn't quite grasp it. Sam does better with tying knots and setting traps and knowing his plants and other nerdy shit. The same kind of stuff Cas is good with, he supposes, but Cas is also a fairly good archer. When Sam grows tiresome of missing the bales of hay painted with bulls-eyes, he goes with another camper his own age back up to the main campsite. Dean and Cas stay behind with a few other campers, but the targets are spaced far enough apart that they feel alone.

"So, are you ready for sophomore year?" Castiel asks him conversationally as he lines up his arrow. Dean watches, waiting until after Cas releases the arrow--and strikes one of the outer rings--to respond.

"Ready as I'll ever be. In August I'll be able to get my restricted license, so that's what I'm really looking forward to."

"That is exciting," Cas murmurs. "I would like to get my permit, but my mother insists upon waiting until I'm sixteen as she did."

"Kansas law'll let you get it early, though," Dean replies sourly. From all the things Castiel  has told him, his mom's pretty rough and irrational as hell.

Cas shrugs. "Her house, her rules."

The defeated look on Cas's face distracts Dean from the target practice. He slips his arm through his bow so that it lay on his chest next to his quiver. "Hey, put your bow away. Let's just go for a walk, alright?"

Cas looks at Dean, like he's a puzzle. Right as Dean's about to tell him to put the bow up, he turns on his heel and returns his bow and quiver to a counselor. "Okay, lets go."

 

* * *

 

They have done this a hundred times.

They have set beside each other on this old log, mossy and wet and facing the lakeside. They have watched day turn to night and the stars steal the black from the sky and replace it with dark blues and purples. If a sky could be bruised...

They have sat aligned, thigh to knee, shoulder to shoulder. Touching is not the issue, suddenly, but the way that Cas is looking at him--it makes Dean uncomfortable. And not in that get-me-the-fuck-away-from-here kind of way, but the way that whispers  _closer, closer, closer._

He wants to tell Cas, but rejection scratches at the door to his fears. The secret he's been holding for months so desperately, the only person he wishes he could tell is also the person he is most afraid of telling.

They have always talked so openly, but doing so could change everything. Doing so could  _ruin_ everything.

"I broke up with Lisa," Dean blurts out of nowhere, the words giving him the strength to look away from Cas. His friend freezes, and inch by inch, he also pulls away.

"Lisa, the girl who..." _took your virginity, kissed you, touched you, said she loved you._

"Yeah," Dean breathes. "I realized that, that I..." He gulps. "I didn't like her too much."

"Last time you spoke of her, you liked her  _very_ much," Cas points out, and there is a forced objectivity to his voice, which Dean notices easily. He finds himself studying Cas's face, trying to determine if he's already fucked the moment up.

"I liked that she liked me," he says, quieter. "I liked that it was okay to like her."

That gets Cas's attention as confusion blossoms in his expression. He squints past Dean, to the lakeshore, and then his eyes find Dean's. "So you realized you didn't like  _her_?"

Dean nods once in confirmation. "I also realized that I, ah, like other things. Other  _people._ People. I like people." He swallows hard.

"People?" Cas looks at him oddly.

Damn it, he's way too far into this to stop now, but he really, really wants to. "Yeah, people," he mumbles. "As in, not just. Just. Not just girls."

What Dean is saying dawns upon Castiel, and his eyes widen, and he blinks rapidly. " _Oh,_ " he breathes. And then his posture straightens. "Ah, me too."

"You too?" Dean whispers. He thinks he can feel his heart flop straight down in his stomach, and tries not to choke on air. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.

Cas nods slowly, staring into his lap. "Well, actually, just...just guys. That's why I was upset with you last year. I didn't...I didn't know how to tell you, 'shut up, I'm gay' without losing you." The guy is flat out somber, like all the years of holding it in, keeping the truth from his friend had also eaten away at his soul.

"Well, you're not losing me anytime soon," Dean says, and he means it.

This is why he decides to keep the other half of his truth locked away. Because now, now he has Cas. He has him more than ever and nothing can jeopardize that. For now.


	9. Thanksgiving - Fall of 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cas, you just turned sixteen, man, you can go out there if you want to."
> 
> "You don't understand. It's not about what I can do, it's about what I am allowed. I am allowed to go to a monitored, vaguely industrialized camp where I am never alone. Where someone is always watching me, make sure I don't hurt myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you saw the other two updates I did tonight!
> 
> Cas is 16, Dean is 15.

**Thanksgiving - Fall of 1994**

Following a recipe is not that different from being a Boy Scout.

The goal is clear from the beginning:  get a delicious dish; become and Eagle Scout. The expectations—the ingredients—are clear from the beginning.

Just like Dean knows he’ll need cream of mushroom, milk (skimmed, because Sammy’s on a weird ass health kick) and a crap ton of green beans to make the perfect casserole, Dean also accepts that in order to get his Eagle rank he needs 21 badges. He’s got 18.

He has all the time in the world to get those last three badges. He can’t say the same about his stupid casserole.

“I agreed to take you boys to Scott county for the weekend, not to sit around and wait for you to finish cooking,” John grumbles from the breakfast table, peering over a cup of simmering hot coffee. Dean checks on his casserole for the hundredth time im the last five minutes, noting that it’s _still_ not done, before he turns to frown at his father.

“Enjoy your coffee, dad,” he replies tiredly.

He receives a grunt in response, and Dean turns back around to face the stove. He smiles.

“It smells real good, Dean,” Sam assures him, cracking a smile too. “I got our bags in the car, so as soon as it’s ready we can hop and go.”

Dean nods. "Awesome." He breathes in, smells the fried onions and the baked cream. Can almost taste the green beans-- _awesome_. He spares himself a few seconds to enjoy the aroma, and then checks in the oven again. The hinges whine like they always do, but judging based on the browning of the top layer, it's done. He grabs an oven mitt and takes it out, wraps it up tight with tinfoil and then places it in one of those cloth, reusable grocery bags.

"Alright, it's all set," Dean announces.

"God, I want to eat it now," Sam tells him as they walk to the car together. Dad is close behind them, a particularly pissed-off swagger in his steps. "Like, all of it. Sorry, no one else will get any."

"What happened to my little Care Bear of a brother?" Dean laughs. "I can't remember how many times you tortured me with that 'sharing is caring' bullshit."

"I have changed my ways." Sam grins wide as he climbs in the back seat of the Impala. Dean opts for shotgun, where he can better determine if their dad is going to get halfway to Scott County and change his mind, make them go spend Thanksgiving on base. "But Dean, you know he'll love it."

"I know he likes McKinny's green beans. And they taste like ass," Dean deflects. "Kid ain't got the best taste."

"Yeah, to be your friend--horrible taste."

The Impala's engine roaring to life cover's Dean's mumbling of, "you little fucker," and, after that, just decides to be the bigger person. Let the blush he hopes--prays--dad doesn't see fade away.

He stares at the bag sitting in his lap, and fidgets as the heat permeates against his thighs.

Dean really hopes Cas likes his casserole.

 

* * *

 

Dean and Sam spending Thanksgiving Break at Novak house, it's crazy.

It's complicated.

At least that is what Dean has been telling himself for the last three weeks, and continues to tell himself the whole hour-ride to Cas's house. He thinks about how a phone conversation (in which they both tip-toed around the whole 'I miss you' thing that they were both thinking but dared not say) evolved into an invitation. Which Dean declined, at first.

It was Sam who, after hearing about Cas telling them that they were invited to a ' _real actually freaking genuine'_  (Sam's over-excited words, not his) Thanksgiving complete with turkey, went to  _dad._ He actually went to dad and groveled, for the first time in his little adolescent life. He and dad bicker nonstop and it's freaking _Thanksgiving_ that makes Sam want to swallow his pride. The kid is admittedly more gutsy than Dean, at least when it comes to their father.

What Dean really didn't expect was for dad to give in. He said he was gonna be leaving them alone anyways, as he had some super important military business to attend to at base. Probably the same shit that he manages to have 'come up' on every significant holiday.

And then Dean didn't have an excuse not to go, which complicated things even more.

Suddenly, their friendship wouldn't be confined to letters or phone calls, or even Camp McKinny. Dean would be in Cas's house, with Cas's _family_ for a holiday, and that crosses lines Dean never even knew he'd drawn. There he found two competing emotions: fear of crossing lines and getting hurt in the process, and desire to be close to Cas. Because things are always better with Cas.

So here Dean is, with a green bean casserole for a gift, all the while he carries one single hope that he won't fuck this weekend up.

 

* * *

 

Dad gives them both an obligatory 'Happy Thanksgiving' as he drops them in front of the Novak house. It's pretty normal-sized, considering that Cas's family is huge.

If he remembers correctly, Castiel lives with his mother, younger sister Anna, and older brother Gabriel. Castiel's dad was in the army, apparently. Declared dead after four years of being MIA, when Cas was just five. That's only something Dean learned shortly after he shared the tragedy of his mother's death.

As (bad) luck would have it, Gabriel's the one who answers the door. He's dressed in his Sunday Best--ironed khakis and a forrest green polo--and has what seems to be a sucker hanging lazily off the corner of his bottom lip.

"You must be Dean-o," he says, eyebrow quirking up. Dean doesn't like the predatory stare, or the nickname, so he hugs his casserole closer to his chest.

"Just Dean," he corrects, and then tilts his head to his right. "And this is my brother Sam. You're Gabriel."

Gabriel smiles and clicks his tongue, the sound muted by the candy sucker he's got rolling around in his mouth. "Castiel must tell you loads about me, huh? Well, if you're in the business of gossip--" He opens the door a little wider, and motions the brothers inside. "--I got dirt on  _all_ my siblings," he confides, chuckling as Dean cringes away from Gabriel's proximety, which is pretty damn close at the moment. _  
_

"Leave them alone," calls Cas, who is descending the stairs two at a time, frustrated and angry-looking. His hair is at its usual level of messiness, dark and tussled. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he tugs uncomfortably at his tie, seeming to avoid loosening the knot as he glares at his brother. "You promised me you would."

"I promised that I'd be on my best behavior. This just happens to be it."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Try harder." And then he directs his attention to Sam and, anger immediately falling away when he meets Dean's eyes. "Dean," he says, gaze lingering and dragging slowly down. "Sam, I'm so glad you were able to come. Mother is preparing dessert--"

"Fuck yes!" Gabriel interjects, and then damn-near cringes under Cas's terrifying glare. "Sorry."

Castiel exhales tiredly. "My mother is finishing up now, so you all are welcome to make yourselves comfortable," he tells them. The first thing Dean notices is that he looks immensely stressed out, and the second is the uncharacteristic stiffness of his friend. It makes Dean's own stomach knot up (more), because Cas's discomfort gives him even more reason to stress out over this weekend. 

Managing a breath, Dean nods and drops his duffle at the staircase. "Alright, thanks." He's still holding the bag with a casserole in it, so he takes a few steps back toward Cas and shoves it forward like he might die if he has to hold it one more second. "Here. Happy Thanksgiving."

Cas peers into the bag, brows knitted together, and then his face relaxes. He looks at Dean. "You brought food?"

"We did," Dean corrects, elbowing Sam. "To thank you for the invite, you know?"

Sam coughs, and nods in agreement. "Yeah, thank you Cas. You and your family are awfully gracious."

 

* * *

 

And the evening goes on, Dean finds himself less awkward. Cas, however, does not stop fidgeting the whole Thanksgiving dinner. When the Novaks say Grace, Dean doesn't care to close his eyes, but he doesn't expect out of everyone one at the table - including Sam - Cas would be the only one to do the same. It's a revelation for Dean, when he sees Cas's mortification that Dean caught him opening his eyes during prayer. Dean smiles at him--not rudely or mockingly, but in that 'Me Too' sort of way that makes his own heart beat a little faster. Cas isn't alone in whatever doubts he's had. He's had them ever since his home went up in smoke.

After dinner is better. Cas's mom and Anna go to clean up in the kitchen while Gabriel and, surprisingly, Sam retreat to the living room to watch the Macy's parade. Boring. So Dean does what he's always on some level done--he follows Cas. Apparently his refuge in on the back porch. You wouldn't know from the pristinely cut front lawn and perfectly trimmed hedges in the front yard that the back of the house faces a thick, endless wilderness. Through the trees--tall and thick, but lacking in the leaf department--Dean can see the sun playing against the horizon, acting like it's going to set but burning just as bright as it would straight above them.

"I don't like to pray," Cas says from beside him suddenly. Dean tears his eyes from the sky, and squints.

"Really?" he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. Cas cocks his head and glares that 'this is a serious conversation, Dean' glare. It makes Dean chuckle, shake his head. "Man, since when do you think I'd care? You saw me, I wasn't praying either."

"But that is characteristic of you," Cas counters.

Dean winces. "Ouch."

"That was not an insult, it was a statement of fact. You do not believe in God, and right--rightly so." His lips press together, like the words burned him and he doesn't want to speak. And he doesn't continue whatever train of thought he was on, but goes to the guardrail of the deck instead. Stares out into the woods like he's never seen them before.

"My mother has never let me go out there," he starts again, ooking over his shoulder. Dean is compelled to come stand next to him, and rests his elbows on the rail. He cranes his head to look at Cas while he talks. "I have been a Scout as long as I can remember and she won't let me go into the goddamned, woods, Dean,"

"Cas, you just turned sixteen, man, you can go out there if you want to."

"You don't understand. It's not about what I can do, it's about what I am  _allowed._ I am allowed to go to a monitored, vaguely industrialized camp where I am never alone. Where someone is always watching me, make sure I don't hurt myself."

"Do you want to get hurt?" Dean asks softly.

"Of course not." Castiel shakes his head. "I just wish I had a choice. My life has already been written for me, Dean, my path already paved. It is the easy path too."

Dean nods. "The path of least resistance?"

"Yeah," murmurs Cas, meeting Dean's eyes with a desperation plaguing his voice, his expression. "Logically, I know that being a teenager comes with this desire to subvert authority. But this goes beyond rebelliousness. I--I have thought things that my mother would punish me for, severely, but I don't care. Because I want them."

Dean doesn't know at what point he laid his hand over Cas's, but it's there. No taking that back. Cas is looking down at their two limbs, touching but it's still on the  _OK_ side of the line Dean's been drawing for months. Maybe longer. But Cas doesn't see that line--he shouldn't--so he crosses it. 

Cas is slowly prying open Dean's now tightly formed fist. When Dean gets the message and relaxes completely--eyes wide and curious and  _afraid,_ he never stops looking at Cas--their fingers intertwine. It's a moment for clarity for Dean and, if he's good at reading faces, Cas too. They both exhale breaths, drawing closer to each other. Dean's always seen their relationship like scientists look at the solar system. Dean and Cas are planets--following roughly the same pattern of revolution, but never crossing paths completely. But now the way Dean sees it, the way it's always been, is that Cas is the sun, and Dean is this meager little planet orbiting around this immensely beautiful and  _bright_ being. The fire in his chest only proves the fact, but Cas is so freaking bright--modest and humble and kind--he doesn't even notice that Dean's trenches and corridors and canyons are filled with light instead of shadows. Dean chokes on the thought-- _he doesn't even know._

"Cas," he mutters, and speaks as his name as it should be. Like something holy. "You're wrong, 'bout me praying."

He blinks back at Dean, still near but his expression far away and confused. "What?"

Dean inches closer, voice dropping as he squeezes Cas's hand so tight, pleading silently  _don't ever let go, don't let go._ "I pray all the time. That you'll never leave me here alone, that you'll know somehow that I--that you-- _damn it,_ I just freaking need you, okay?"

A few  _really_ long seconds pass, all of which consist of staring and Dean trying to figure out what Cas is thinking. Now he's praying he didn't screw this all up, that the whole hand holding and the veiled talk about _want_ wasn't just a really friendly thing. 

"You need me?" Cas asks quietly. Such a simple question. Such simple words.

The don't uncomplicated anything thing. " _Yes,_ " he says exasperatedly, taking the lack of rejection as a cautious invitation. Dean closes the small space between them and presses their foreheads together. God, this is the closest they've ever been, all these years. It's intoxicating, numbing in fact. Dean didn't know just how much he needed this.

And, maybe Cas does too.

"Dean." He sounds so serious, voice rumbly and close. Quiet. "You have me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Cas loved the casserole. Why wouldn't he? Dean is an excellent cook.


	10. Clarity - Winter of 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish I was there right now," Castiel murmurs, and Dean nods to that. He wishes Cas was here too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is 16, Dean is 15

**Clarity - Winter of 1994**

After Thanksgiving, very little changed.

Dean grew more miserable every day he had to sit down at the dinner table with his father and be an obedient ornament. He still (to his guilt) took out his frustration on Sam, to which Sam would resiliently reply "jerk." Dean still finds the will to smile and call Sam a bitch.

But when it came to the world of Dean-and-Cas, there was no line of demarcation that separated "then" and "now." They are still best friends. With something else. A sorta-spoken agreement to be more. And even though Dean isn't the let's-talk-it-out kind of guy, he finds the coming months a struggle.

He finds that he wants a little clarity.

And even if Cas desires the same kind of enlightenment, both of them are way too pussyfoot to say anything. They talk on the phone frequently as possible (meaning mostly when his dad isn't home to bombard him with questions) and still write. Mostly they end up exchanging pictures which Dean unabashedly begins to collect in that same tin box where he's kept all his other keepsakes. Where he keeps the lighter Cas gave him years ago, because he's afraid the thing might break (and things that belonged to him  _before_ mom died are just that more sacred).

So as fall turns to winter, Dean starts to think of that lighter and what it meant to him. It was basically the foundation of the truest friendship he's had  _to date._ Dean hasn't been a complete asshole all these years; he's sent Cas birthday cards and Christmas cards and sometimes money, when they had some cash to spare. But Dean can't imagine any of those have weighed as much on Cas's heart as that stupid little lighter has weighed on his.

Even though their friendship--relationship, whatever--is on unstable and unfamiliar grounds, he wants to lay the foundation for their next step. Whatever that is.

With some money he has saved up from raking leaves around the neighborhood during the fall, Dean drives to the convenience store and buys a package of blank cassette tapes. He really only needs one, but a few extra won't hurt in case he messes up.

Thing is, the kids at school make mixtapes all the time as gifts. Dean's never seen the big idea since he plays the same tapes over and over again, and the only person in town he'd share his love of Zeppelin and Def Leppard is Sam. But he's never had the opportunity to  _properly_ educate his musically sheltered friend, except during the summer as they huddle around Dean's old cordless radio, trying to get a signal for the classic rock station, most of the time in vain.

Dean excitedly unwraps a blank tape and sets it in his RCA recorder, and then flips on his stereo--the first song he wants to start with, Dean reckons, is a classic. Well, they're all gonna be classic, but the opener needs to be a  _Dean_ classic. He pops  _Led Zeppelin II_ into the stereo and smiles when  _Whole Lotta Love_ bursts to life through the speakers. He scoots the recorder up to the speaker and his finger lingers over the record button--but no. That's too...too strong. Dean swallows hard and begins to fast forward the tape onto Track 7, Dean's personal favorite.

He presses record just as the bouncing rhythm of guitar strums in his ears.

_Leaves are falling all around,_   
_Its time I was on my way..._

Dean resists the urge to sing along, but he can't help but air guitar through the chorus, right to the song's end, when the final guitar strum fades into the static of the tape. Dean pauses the stereo, but doesn't stop the recording. He leans into the microphone side of the recorder and clears his throat.

"Um," he starts, wincing. He hasn't screwed up badly enough to trash the tape, but he doesn't exactly want any idiotic mumbling documented for Cas to listen to. Possibly repeatedly. Despite himself, Dean is furiously blushing as if Cas could ear him shuffling to think of something to say. "Uh, okay. First of all, Cas, Merry Christmas," he gets out, nodding to himself. Good start. "That little number there was  _Ramble On,_ by Ledd Zeppelin. In a weird way, it gives me hope. You know, when my dad's getting on me and stuff, I think about how someday--this will be my life, to live, and no one else's. Remember that too, you'll have your life someday. No one to tell you how to live it."

Before he can screw up that soundbite, Dean shuts off the recorder and exhales shakily. Yeah, he's gonna need to get better at that.

* * *

 

Two weeks until Christmas, and Dean only has that one song on the tape. He just doesn't know what could possibly follow his favorite song. He listens to all his Zeppelin albums three times over while he scribbles possibilities down in his composition notebook. Nothing seems  _right,_ looking at it from an educational standpoint.

He thinks back to the reason why he thought to do this. He wanted to give Cas a gift he could hold on to for a long time, something that would comfort him. Something that would make him think of Dean, or at least remind him that Dean's thinking  _of_ him. God, that sounds so freaking girly but--is it a bad thing? Cas doesn't know all the nights when he was younger that he'd flick the flame on that little lighter on and off, imagining that every time he did Cas was laying next to him. And not in a romantic way or anything, not at first, but in that way that Dean could imagine not being alone.

But then again, Cas has all that family.

Then again, Dean has Sam, and even his baby brother couldn't quite fill the void, ease the loneliness.

So he starts to think that maybe he should pick songs that connect Dean and Cas. Dean plays with the idea for days, until he realizes that his time is really running out. He bites the bullet and turns on the radio to his favorite rock station, and stays on it for  _hours,_ through the night even, finger hovering over the record button as he waits for the right songs.

 _Baba O'Riley,_ The Who. "This one talks about a teenage wasteland, and moving out with the ones you care about. An exodus it says. I could see you and me doing that, someday."

 _Fortunate Son,_ Creedence Clearwater Revival. "This one, this one speaks to me, and maybe you too. I've never been given much, but what I have... I feel really lucky. I'd fight for what I got, too."

Dean tries to get a message between all the songs, a little commentary that takes the tape beyond the music, even the superficiality of the lyrics. He finds himself growing extremely intimate as the tape goes on, even when he chooses to say nothing his heart feels freakin'  _swollen._ Like, he couldn't even say something snarky if he tried because he's beside himself.

 _Now_ he is definitely a girl, Dean thinks when it gets to be about twelve o'clock. Sam's sleeping over at a friend's house, his Dad isn't home (even though it's a Saturday and he doesn't have work; he must be out at the bar or something). His eyes feel a bit heavy, but he hasn't found the best closing song.

 _"We're about to switch on over to our paid broadcasting,"_ the DJ says through Dean's speakers. "But now we got one song coming from a young man for his special girl, Diane. Coming at you, the last classic hit--"

Dean manages to press record after the first two vibrant strums of that too-familiar guitar opening-- _Sweet Child O' Mine,_ Guns N' Roses.

It's the perfect way to end the mixtape.

After the song ends, Dean shuts off his radio and even pauses the recording too...breathe. Here comes that too-big feeling in his chest again, a lot like Grinch cartoons they've been playing nonstop all season long. His heart his three sizes too large for his chest, beating and pounding against his ribs like he wants to go to a mountain top and just _scream_.

"Cas," Dean says after he decides that he really needs to close out the tape with something meaningful. "I think of this one and I think about how I never want to let you down. You're the one that, uh, makes me smile, and it really does take me back to all those summers...we were just kids, you know, but I've always felt like you were special and awesome. Really awesome. Merry...Merry Christmas, man."

* * *

 

"Have you gotten any packages lately...?" Dean asks Cas on the phone about a week later. Two days until Christmas.

A small silence ebbs on the line until Castiel answers. "You sent me something?"

"Maybe." Dean smirks, licks his lips as he presses his mouth closer to the receiver, so that there's no chance he's overheard. "Just gotta wait and see."

"Dean," Cas breathes, "You didn't have to give me anything--if I had known, I would have--"

"Don't you dare go out and spend your money on me," Dean cuts him off. "I got you this as--um, a little repayment."

"For what?"

Hesitating to answer, Dean bites his lower lip, thinks of the feeling of cold metal in his hand, of that potential for flame, for heat. And then he remembers that the warmth is there without the lighter, but it's not in his hand, but in his chest. "You'll see."

* * *

 

The next time he talks to Cas is three days after Christmas. Dean didn't know his dad was gonna drag him and Sam up to Bobby's house for Christmas dinner. Not that Dean begrudged that time, he really likes Bobby. And his wife Ellen was really nice too; she makes a mean pot roast. Also, they got a daughter named Jo who's pretty cool, if not really clingy. Dean makes a note to redirect her crushy-affections onto his brother. Maybe next Christmas.

But being away from home for two days, including Christmas, means that he may have missed the phone call from Cas--missed his reaction to opening, even listening to the mixtape.

So when Cas does call the day after they get back from Bobby's, Dean is quick to take the phone up to his bedroom and lock the door.

"Cas, hey, I'm alone now, what's up?" he asks, knowing he is out of breath and clearly too eager.

"My mother's family left,  _finally,"_ Cas breathes into the line.

"That bad?"

"Dean, it was horrible. I wanted to jump of the balcony at least forty-five times."

He laughs into the line, caught up in how cutely  _annoyed_ Cas sounds. "Well, I'm really glad you didn't," he says, forcing as much sincerity in his voice as he can, minus the amusement. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No, I want to  _forget._ But," Cas pauses, static filling the line. "I do want to talk about this tape I just listened to."

Dean actually feels his heart flop--around in his ribs like a pinball gone haywire, and then down into his stomach like he's just fallen from the peak of a roller coaster. His face fills with heat, and he wipes his face in an attempt to hide the blush (from no one but himself) or at least make it go  _away._

 _"O-oh,_ yeah?" Dean stammers, and then clears his throat as he throws himself from his bed. He makes sure his bedroom door is locked tight, and then--for good measure--goes into the closet and pulls the sliding doors shut behind him. "A tape?"

Cas actually  _chuckles--_ damn it, he chuckles and Dean has to catch his breath because the goddamned sound makes his heart take off. It's so small and private and-- _wow,_ Dean could listen to that sound all day. "Don't be coy." 

 _Like I'm the coy one, holy shit, stop sounding like a porno,_ Dean thinks and bites his tongue so  _not_ to say that. "I'm not being...uh, that. I--I'm guessing you liked it."

"It was amazing," Cas breathes. "I--I got it today. I've listened to it tw...twice. And I'm halfway through it for a third time."

"Which song are you on?"

" _More than a Feeling_."

Dean blushes again; that's the mushiest song, probably, on the whole goddamned tape. "Mhm, yeah, it's a classic. Great song."

"Dean, did you mean...did you mean all the things you said? Because, I--I have been unsure how to navigate this whole thing. It's so new and I just want things to be as they were--"

"They can be!" Dean exclaims, panicking. "We can go back--just, forget it--"

"Let me finish." Castiel words intone through the line, silencing Dean. "I _want_ things to be as they were, but I don't want whatever we have, are starting to have, become lost...because I'm afraid. Because we're afraid. Are you afraid Dean?"

The question  _really_ hits Dean deep, in a place where fear truly resides. Where he remembers screaming, the burning smell of his life going up in smoke. He fears his father, the beratement that comes whenever Dean doesn't meet the unreachable expectation. He fears so much, despite what he lets other people see. He fears being alone. He fears not being good enough.

"Yes," he whispers, an honest answer at best. If Cas is gonna be open about this, make himself vulnerable, then Dean should do the same. "I'm afraid I'll lose you."

A soft, shaking breath washes through the line. "I wish I was there right now," Castiel murmurs, and Dean nods to that. He wishes Cas was here too. "Because, I--I think the only way you'd believe me is if you could look me in the eye, because that's the way you are. But Dean, I want you to imagine that I'm close to you now, so close we could almost--you know...and listen carefully: I will never abandon you. You're my friend--and so much more. But that first thing will never,  _ever_ change."

Cas is right. It's a little hard to believe over the phone, but Dean hesitantly nods. He remembers that Cas can't see him when he days Dean's name quietly.

"I'm here," Dean manages. "And, thanks. That means...a lot. Man, I miss you."

"Me too," Cas says back. "And thank you, again, for the tape. It is a lovely gift."

"Alright, it's not  _lovely,_ let's just stick with awesome." Dean laughs, smiling. It's just about that time that Sam is pounding on their shared bedroom door. "Shit, well Sam's gonna break down my door any second, so..."

"Goodbye Dean."

He holds out for a few seconds, content to hear his friend breath through the line. But then Sam bangs on the door again, and he's afraid that dad's gonna get involved sooner or later. "Bye."

Later that night, after he and Sam have both fallen into their respective beds, Dean realizes it's the first time that Dean's said 'I miss you' over the phone.

Vocalizing that has made the longing more real than it's ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to check out the playlist I made for this chapter: http://8tracks.com/partinglass/for-cas


	11. Independence - July 4th, 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hopes they don't fizzle and hopelessly, meaninglessly fall to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is coming a little early because I will be out of town July 6-13th with limited computer access. I don't know when the next update is going to be, but it will be the week of the 14th, I promise.
> 
> Dean and Castiel are both 16.

The first time Dean kisses Cas, he shouldn't have.

Not to say it wasn't a damn good kiss--all teeth and synchronized breathing and,  _fuck,_ Dean even got to cop a feel of Cas's ass, a wonderful first--but the timing was less than impeccable.

It happened in a clearing just about half a mile away from where Camp McKinny was hosting their biannual fireworks show, something that Dean has always loved about camp. At home, they were lucky to even have sparklers. Sammy liked those, though--writing his name with sparks and smoke in the cool July air. He was so glad that Sam was able to enjoy the show for the first time, enraptured in it all with his other little twelve year-old friends...

Meanwhile, Dean and Castiel easily slip away from the other scouts to this little field within the trees. It's hidden by the underbrush, but the fireworks go high enough that they are visible from the clearing.

Cas is the smart one; he actually brought a blanket and a bag of giant marshmallows. Even though they don't make a fire, they end up spread across the blanket, popping the fluffy, sugary things past their lips.

When the show actually starts, it's nothing short of romantic. The sky goes haywire with colors, with light, and the smell of smoke filters to where they lay by the breeze. Dean smiles wider than he thinks is possible, finding himself oddly at peace despite the flurry of explosions happening above and all around. Maybe it's because Cas is lined up next to him, shoulder to hip. This is what he loves, what he craves. Eventually he gets up the courage to drop his hand to Cas's, who tenses at first and then very willingly weaves his fingers into Dean's. He exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"This was a fantastic idea," Cas says to Dean, but he's still chewing a marshmallow, so the words are muffled despite his articulation. Dean laughs a little, short and breathless. It's really cliche, but the way the fireworks' color dance on Cas's skin really steals his breath, makes his heart sink and then explode like--like he and Cas are fireworks, launching into this dark unknown.

He hopes they don't fizzle and hopelessly, meaninglessly fall to the ground.

That thought steals away some of Dean's numbing bliss, but his smile still remains. "I'm glad you thought so," he says back, voice falling into a whisper. He edges closer to Cas, nose unwittingly pressing against his neck. Well, now that he's there, he might as well inhale-- _god,_ he smells like rain and fresh cut grass. Or maybe that's just because they're laying on grass. Dean doesn't care. He rolls onto his side and what was just a nose pressed against Cas's neck becomes lips.

Cas freezes, and so does Dean. He thinks he might have screwed up, done too much. Gone too fast, even though it seems like he's spent an immeasurable time just...just waiting. For what, he doesn't know. He pulls away, and his eyes are shut shamefully as he tries to force away any embarrassment.

"Wait." Cas squeezes his hand, firm. "Please, just..." When Dean opens his eyes, he sees his friend is rolled over on his side now, too, blue eyes searching his own. "Don't let me down."

Heart thrumming in his chest, Dean surges forward and closes his lips over Cas's.

It's everything he  _didn't_ imagine.

He imagined that kissing a boy would be weird. Like kissing a girl, but harder and scruffier with all the developing facial hair and stuff. He didn't think that his first kiss with Cas would be incredibly tender, as well, filled with soft hushed breaths. He also knows he's  _Cas's_ first, so awkwardness was expected, if not written in stone.

Dean was wrong.

Cas opens his mouth invitingly, like a pro, and a little whimper from puffy lips invites Dean right in. Like a siren calling men into the sea, Dean delves deeper past boundaries, past walls on which unspoken rules were written. Like, not making out hardcore with your best friend. Like not falling in lo--falling for your best friend, and oh god, Dean is falling so hard he can feel a phantom pain in his chest that is actually making his eyes water.

And he pours all that emotion into his lips, into his hands. Dean Winchester speaks with his hands, the same hands that have been taught to tie knots and tend to plants and fight, they now tenderly run up Cas's side. "Cas..." he manages against his friend's lips, pleased to find that Cas really doesn't want to stop, not for a second. Dean's fingers play with the buttons of Cas's shirt, using them as leverage to untuck it from his khaki shorts. Once it's untucked, Dean slides his hand across Cas's stomach, pressing deeper into the kiss as he presses his thumb into a hip.

That causes Cas to squirm, but luckily he does so right into Dean's embrace. Their chests are touching now, Cas's hand untangling from the space between them and stroking up Dean's neck, into the short hairs on the back of his neck and resting there. Meanwhile, Dean slides his fingers to Cas's back, and dares to venture below the waistband of his pants, and squeezes his fingers into the plump top of his ass.

"Dean?"

And the electricity dies in an instant. Fizzles out like a flame doused in water. Dean shoves Cas away faster than Cas knows to process it is happening, and dejectedly falls on his side of the blanket, lips parted and swollen and eyes shining like they're filling with tears.  _Fuck,_ Dean wants to wipe that look off his face, but the sound of footsteps makes him alert and suddenly clearheaded.

"Dean are you out here?"

"Over here, Sammy," Dean calls back, voice shaking. It's really fucking hard to go from the best make out session of your life to your "talking to your brother" voice.

Through the brush comes Sammy and one of his friends, Dean thinks his name is Brady. Sam makes a face, oddly dejected (a lot like Cas's, in fact) as he holds up a box of sparklers. "I didn't know you guys were gonna leave?"

"I didn't either, it was kind of a spur of the moment thing," Dean replies, and feels a pang of guilt for lying to his brother. Well, his brother and a possibly gossipy twelve year-old stranger. "You wanted to do sparklers?"

Sam shyly shrugs. "Well, it didn't seem right to do 'em without you, with us being in the same place and all."

Dean nods, and looks over to Cas. He looks tired, or maybe that's just him feigning exhaustion since they kind of had a bit of a workout. Dean knows it's taking a lot of self-control not to huff and puff like he's just run a marathon. His heart still slams in his chest, but his resolve to keep Sam in the dark is a really good motivator.

"Do ya wanna do sparklers, Cas?" he asks, elbowing him. In that touch is a silent 'are you okay? are we okay? I hope we're okay.'

Cas's eyes find his, and nods slowly, sensing the inquiries that lay beneath the simpler question. To both, he answers, "Yes."

 

* * *

 

The second time they kiss, Cas is the instigator. They still probably shouldn't have done it, but Dean's glad they did.

It was in the cabin on the last day of camp, right after all of their other bunkmates left. Even Sam had gone out to the lodge to see his friends off, so they were alone.

At camp, that status was often very, very temporary, so Cas wasted no time in pressing his hand to Dean's chest and pushing him gently against the wall, and then pressing his lips to Dean's like he could only live off the air straight out of Dean's lungs. "This is alright?" he asks as he pulls away, licking his lips. "You want this?"

"Yes," Dean exhales, "So much."

"I don't want to hide us forever."

Dean shakes his head, eyebrows pressing together. "Neither do I." A revelation strikes him. "I think... I'm gonna tell Sam, Sam will understand."

"Gabriel knows," Cas confesses, which makes Dean's eyes widen with surprise. "Or, has always known, but he saw us on the porch. No one else did, but--"

"We gotta be more careful," Dean says quietly, and begrudgingly pushes at Cas's shoulders. He separates them. "Until we're ready to...for...everyone to know. Which is gonna be pretty damn hard." They see each other so little anyways. Now that they've kissed (and Dean's claimed 2nd base, _ah_ ) it's gonna be so freaking hard to keep his hands of Cas when they are together.

"It will be," Cas agrees, and despite Dean's insistence, dives back in for a peck on the lips. Dean's actually left blushing, mostly because Cas looks all chaste and shy like they  _haven't_ french kissed or nothing. "But, soon."

Soon. The word is so fleeting, it drifts on the wind, but burns between them like a promise.


	12. Revolution - 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean closes his eyes, because he knows all too well the danger of hoping things can last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas are 16.

**Revolution - August 1995**

Everyone knows the county fair is really a final hurrah for all the kids who don't want the summer to ever end.

This is certainly the case for Dean. Sam, not so much; the kid hasn't seemed to outgrow that starry-eyed stage where he likes going to school and cutting out shapes. But now he's learning fucking  _algebra_ in what? Seventh grade? Bullshit. _  
_

Where Sam sees an optimistic future, Dean sees yet another year of mediocre grades, which also means another year of John breathing down his neck to pick up the slack. It's not like Dean doesn't try, but he can't wrap his head around any type of learning when the teachers treat him like a stupid troublemaker from the get-go.

So, of course it makes sense to suffocate the stress with a funnel cake showered in confectioners sugar.

Aside from the food--and  _Jesus_ it's good--the energy of the rides and the games and the laughing and smiling overstimulates Dean to the point of numbing his darkest thoughts. The scent of warm buttered popcorn and licorice thick in his nose, Dean can forget about his obligations. Even his promise to Cas.

Dean gnaws at a piece of his funnel cake, only taking not of the fact that the rest of his face is contorted when Sam elbows him, "What's the look about sourpuss?"

"What?" Dean asks, mouthful, and looks down at his brother. His brows are pinched together, big eyes watching him. Well, there's definitely something wrong when the little brother is concerned about the older. That Sam worries for  _him--_ that stings him in a way vaguely similar to when his pride is wounded. Dean swallows what he's got chewed quickly and rolls his eyes. "This look means I'm running out of money to play games with."

Sam pats at his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, a little faux leather thing that Dean got him for his birthday.

When he gave it to Sam, he said, " _Part of being a man is having a wallet. Right now, it's gonna be good for holding your library card and lunch money. In a couple of years you're also gonna wanna put a condom in there._ "

As Sam paws it open with his clumsy hands, Dean shakes his head. "Don't you dare spend one cent at this goddamned fair." He's not ready for his brother to be  _that_ grown up yet.

"Jesus, Dean, I can't spend your money, I can't spend  _my_ money. Why don't we just not spend _any_ money?"

"Fine," Dean huffs impatiently, tearing off another bite of funnel cake, chewing it like it's the reason for his nearly empty wallet (it kind of is, though). "Then let's just get the hell out of here."

The mere mention of leaving the fair strangles a, "No!" past Sam's lips and he shakes his head vigorously. "I mean. Not yet. We don't have to play any more games, but I at least want to go on the ferris wheel before we go."

The ferris wheel? Dean squints above his brother's head, spotting the rusty rotating circle of death (not that anyone's died on it-- _yet)_  just passed the military recruitment tent, where their father has taken up shop to 'serve his community.' Dean takes a moment to internally scoff.

"That thing is for babies," Dean says after a beat. Sam hasn't wanted to ride that damned thing in years. The ferris wheel is notoriously slow, and gets stuck. Some say it's a conspiracy to make the two-buck admission  _really_ count; others, mostly couples, say it's a grand and fantastic strategy to get in a few extra minutes of uninterrupted, unseen, spit-swapping time--

"--Oh shit," Dean curses, lips spreading out into a smile. He smacks a hand on Sam's shoulder, shaking his head. "Sam, you  _dog._ " 

"Wha--what?"

"Ha! You're going to meet a girl there, aren't you!"

"Oh..." Sam lowers his eyes, his voice, and his cheeks redden. "Um, yep. You caught me."

Dean sniffs, unable to suppress his  _proud_ shit-eating smile. "What's her name? What's she like--wait, no, tell me later. I'll need a reason to further procrastinate my stupid summer reading."

"...Okay," Sam agrees, nodding. "So you'll come with me?"

"You don't need me to hold your hand for this one, Sammy."

"Please? I don't even know if...um, she's coming or not," Sam murmurs to himself. "You can wait, or ride in a different car. Whatever."

Admittedly, Dean really _does_ want front row seats for this--whatever happens. He hasn't heard of Sam liking a girl since he was in Kindergarten. His first crush was a little rugrat named Sarah, who broke Sammy's heart when she gave her 64 crayon set to some kid named Aaron. Sam cried for hours, and Dean was there for every painstaking second of blubbering...

So, a happy note, a  _good_ relationship is something Sam wants to see happen.

" _Fine,"_ Dean agrees, exasperating his tone so Sam won't think he's gone too soft. The kid doesn't really light up; rather, he sighs in relief.

 

* * *

 

Who ever thought a fucking carnival ride would have such a long  _line_?

Dean suddenly wishes he'd brought his walkman, even though it's a bulky unreliable piece of shit most of the time, because watching Sam fiddle with the hem of his shirt is nerve-wracking. It's like the kid's in line to see the president and is suddenly freaking out over his lame tshirt and dirty loafers, but Dean's not really convinced that it's the outfit that has his brother preoccupied.

"I have gum you know," Dean throws out, sinking a hand into his pocket. "Winter fresh flavor. Or I could buy you cotton candy. Girls like that taste."

Sam frowns at him. "I'm not worried about my breath."

"Then friggin' calm down already, you're so nervous  _I'm_ getting nervous. And I'm not even getting a kiss today."

Sam laughs at that, loosening his shoulders a little. Good. That's good. Except now Dean's thinking of the sore lack of kisses he's been getting lately. Well, he's got a really good one in his recent memory, at least.

Dean closes his eyes for what feels like hours, replaying the night in his mind. Fireworks shooting across the sky, muted by the tree line, but enhanced by the thundering explosions. Pure power, colorful light. Damn if he still couldn't feel Cas's tongue shyly pressing at his lower lip, kissing so tentatively. And  _damn_ if Dean wishes he could feel that shyness melt away and be replaced by just...raw passion _  
_

Damn.

The memory fades away as Dean becomes overtly aware that he's standing in line at the county fair, staring at the back of his eyelids like an idiot.

And when he opens his eyes, he notices the line begins to move. Much faster. It looks like a big group of people have gotten out of line, basically putting Sam and Dean at the forefront.

A few more minutes pass, and there's no sign of Sam' little girlfriend. Sam is looking down the line, squinting and searching. Dean asks what she looks like, but Sam gives the most vague, unhelpful description possible. So much for that. When one car of the ferris wheel reaches the base, the ride's moderator calls for Sam and Dean to get in.

"I'll wait here for her," Sam says.

"You want me to wait with you?"

" **NEXT**."

Dean glares at the stuffy old woman whose arm rests on the ride's control lever. "Hold up, one sec!" He shouts back, and then looks to Sam.

"No, you go on up. If she doesn't show, I'll be at dad's tent."

Dean didn't want to ride the goddamned thing in the first place, so he shakes his head, "No, I'm not really in the mood, Sam."

" _Please,_ " Sam presses. "Trust me. I'll meet you after, promise."

Then Dean gets the puppy dog eyes, Christ.

Groaning Dean turns on his heel, and points at the ride moderator. "This is for you, Babe."

 

* * *

 

 The sun beats down on the little medal bench as Dean swings his legs back and forth. Apparently the second Dean latched himself in, the gears got freaking  _stuck,_ and when Dean looks back to the line, Sam is nowhere in sight. Part of him feels like he should be concerned, but the most optimistic portion of him wants to think that he saw his girlfriend and they're going to eat some cotton candy together.

He really needs to convince Dad to get a decent pair of bunny ears so they can catch some real soaps so Dean can stop turning his own life into one.

Just when he's about to just casually slink out beneath the bar and hit the road, Dean hears footsteps on the platform, and then someone climbing onto his car.

"Yo,  _es occupado,_ man," Dean starts, but the words die in his mouth quickly when the bar raises--a body falls next to his own--and then drops. Dean hears nothing else, until the machine below promptly roars to life and the ferris wheel begins to move.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says.

Dean is beside himself. He actually think he may be hallucinating. A combination of too much soda, sun, and funnel cake and  _maybe,_ just maybe, his screws have finally come too loose. Like a blind man looking for water, Dean reaches a hand out so slow, so tentative, until his palm finds Cas's thigh. The heat of his bare knee against his fingertips causes a sigh to fall from parted lips; it causes him to scoot closer. Sight, touch, now smell--yes, Cas smells like, hm, peppermint. Like the little York peppermint patties the bank leaves on the counter by the deposit slips.

"You're actually here," Dean realizes. He's stunned by the muteness in his own voice. He sounds defeated, but he feels victorious as he presses his body into Cas's space.

The wheel moves slowly, and they're high enough and at an angle where no one can really see anything but dangling feet. If there's a god, Dean thanks him quietly, because an unspoken prayer is answered: he has the chance to kiss Cas again.

And he does, and it surprises them both, but Cas quickly falls into it. The guy actually feels more practiced, when he confidently presses his lips hard against Dean's while stroking his palm across Dean's cheek. Before even being asked, Dean opens his mouth and Cas promptly slides his tongue between them. Dean can't help but moan, and that's a cue that it's time to slow things down.

Cas breaks away when he feels Dean pushing softly at the center of his chest. He is so rumpled, his lips red and puffy, cheeks red from the...excitement, Dean guesses. Dean might make a joke right about now, but his libido is all but inactive, so he blushes instead at their mutual states.

"I'm sorry," Cas whispers. "I am just so happy to see you."

"Me too." Dean's hand still is on Cas's chest, so he takes the opportunity to slide his palm down, avoiding his groin but  _so_ feeling up his thigh. Over the years, Cas has grown from a thin kid to a lanky kid, but now his body is lithe and distributed like a runner. And fuck, if a pair of strong legs with a tight ass too isn't the sexiest thing ever.

It crosses his mind, however, that Cas and his sexy tight ass don't live around here.

"But...how are you here? Not that I'm not freaking ecstatic or anything."

"Gabriel," is Cas's answer. "He is a strong believer in long-distant relationships, apparently. I believe it has something to do with his ex-girlfriend moving to India."

"Don't tell me your brother is living vicariously through you."

"Apparently, that seems to be a common trend among older brothers," Castiel says with an arched brow. "Sam and I have been comparing notes."

"What?" Dean blinks a few times, before it dawns on him. "You and Sam? You two fuckers... _you planned this?_ "

Cas bows his chin, seeming a little guilty. "Sam was the one who actually...um, called. I know you had planned on telling him, but he is...too perceptive for his own good."

"Telling him?" Dean repeats, and his heart drops. "Sam called?"  _Perceptive._ "Sam  _knows?_ " Dean is really running out of energy to sound bewildered today. Instead, he shifts to anger.  _  
_

"Please don't be upset." Cas presses forward, placing a hand over the one resting over his own thigh. "He is okay with it, he doesn't care, he _loves_ you."

"I'm not...I'm not upset," he decides, looking up to Cas's eyes. He's not angry at Cas, but angry at himself; he waited too long, and now he'll never have the chance to work up the courage to tell someone he loves again. It's one thing, if he noticed that Dean really doesn't have a preference when it comes to dudes or chicks. Everyone is experimenting, these days--be it sex or drugs. What really disappoints Dean is that he is in...he's in a relationship with a mutual friend, and Sam just...figured out. "I just wanted to tell...someone, you know?"

Cas nods once. "I understand."

"I don't know why I waited," Dean admits. "I guess I just don't trust that when someone says they love me, it'll be unconditional. I mean, my dad's love is pretty conditional, you know. He'll feed and cloth me, but I don't think he'd do that if he knew I was...that I was in a relationship with a guy."

"That's how I felt about my mother," Castiel says to him, nodding.

Dean's eyes widen, because he shares a certain perceptiveness with his brother.  _Felt._ "Did you tell her?"

"I did."

"When? What happened?"

"She talked to me about it, and told me that...she didn't want it to change me. She said she wanted me to remain kind and generous and loving," Cas says, staring off past Dean, like he can't even believe the words himself.

"And what did you say?" Dean prompts.

"I told her that you bring out the best in me. That you you showed me kindness when no one else would. That you...you've given me the strength to be more generous. You've given me something to love. You've given me you."

"Cas," Dean starts, throat thick. He hears the fullness and emotion in his friend's voice, and finds himself leaning in closer. He kisses Cas's forehead gently. He is never this tender, only with Cas. "You bring out the best in  _me,_ " he amends. "It's so hard...to trust, you gotta understand. I have Sam, I have my dad, and I have you. You _have_ me, and I hope you never want to stop having me."

"I won't," Cas promises, pulling Dean's face down so their eyes may meet. "I swear, I won't."

Dean closes his eyes, because he knows all too well the danger of hoping things can last forever.

If he closes his eyes... he can memorize this. The smell of peppermint and now, now he smells Cas's cologne. He feels warm breath against his lips, Cas's fingers knitting into his hair as their foreheads press together.

"If it isn't clear, or obvious," Cas starts slowly, the words literally pressing against Dean's parted lips. "I am so deeply, infinitely in love with you, Dean. Beyond what has transpired in the last year, I have always loved you, in a way that can't ever be broken."

If love can't be broken, then maybe...maybe Dean can lower his guard..."I've loved you," he starts, and then stops, because for Dean Winchester, those three words suffice.

Cas kisses him, soft and chaste, before pulling away. Dean didn't notice that they missed the moment to stare over the the fairgrounds at the peak of the ferris wheel, as it now begins to descend back to the ground.

Dean doesn't feel so stuck anymore. If this chunky, circular rusty death trap can revolve, so can he.


	13. Collision - March 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long for an update! I'm about to start my first year of college and everything's been very hectic. Forgive me. This is the second to last chapter.
> 
> Dean is 17, Castiel is 16.

_**Collision - March 1996** _

Of all the boys in their troop, Dean is the first to earn all of the necessary badges to be given the most honorable title of Eagle Scout. He doesn't  make an effort to absorb the occasion, to treasure it, but ticks it off his to-do list. That is, the never-ending to-do list of things that will make his father look at him straight, like a person rather than a cadet.

The only redeeming aspect of the whole ordeal was that Cas was there. His mother, being that she is a den mother, brought Castiel's troop down to witness the occasion. Castiel already has his Eagle Scout title. So, after Dean took his oath, and the Grand Scoutmaster pinned his final badge to the brown sash cast over his shoulder, he went down a line and shook hands with everyone with the rank of Eagle Scout or higher. Cas was at the end of that line, and he held onto Dean's hand a little longer than he should have, and Dean bit his tongue to keep himself from blushing.

The reception is held in the same place as the ceremony, the gym of Dean's high school, and Dean takes the opportunity to introduce some of the kids in his troop to Cas and other visiting scouts.

After the obligatory chatter, Dean finds a way to pull Cas off to the side without drawing to much attention. He does it with his fingers lace in the crook of Cas's elbow, tugging him along as Dean makes his way to the banquet table. He helps himself to punch, pouring Cas a cup too, and takes a moment to breathe.

"I hate all this attention," he confides, lifting his eyes to his side. Castiel sips from his solo cup, nearly thoughtful as he nods.

"You did wonderfully, though. You only messed up your oath once." He smiles, bracing himself as Dean punches his shoulder.

But Dean smiles back, face heating up at the memory. "I was thinking about getting it over with. I never wanted to do this." The admission sounds petulant, childish, because a normal person shouldn't complain about being  _honored._ The work he put into getting his Eagle rank is through, but he still resents all the time he spent, wishing that he could have been doing other things.

Castiel looks at him with understanding though. He never judges Dean, not for the small confessions that he would never say to anyone else. As Dean appraises his friend--his  _boy_ friend--he is overcome with a need to touch him. But, the room is filled with his father, and close-minded people like him.

"I wish that you got to do what you wanted," Castiel says.

"Me too. I mean, I wish you could do what you wanted... even if I don't really know what that is."

"Honestly, I can't imagine what else I would have done. I am not athletic, even though I have taken up running as a pastime of mine. But I truly know of nothing else." Cas worries his lower lip between his teeth.

Dean can't hold his hand, but he  _can_ rest a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes Castiel above his shoulder point, his heart sinking warmly into his belly when the muscles relax between his fingers. "If it weren't for this, the scouts, we would have never met," Dean offers. A moment later, after the weight of his own words sink in, his thoughts ripple. A life without Cas?Where would he be _then?_

He lets his hand slide off Cas's shoulder, fingers trailing down the length of his arm. Castiel looks down into his cup, both hands wrapped around it tight.

"I have a feeling that isn't true," Castiel murmurs, almost to himself. Dean presses a fraction closer, focusing on muting the idle chatter around him. Suddenly, Dean is stricken by the intense blue-eyed gaze that simultaneously tugs his heart out of his throat and pulls it deeper in to the warm, stir of affection in his stomach. "We are not  _chance_. We are two planets, orbiting at different rates in the same universe, moving faster than light itself; even so, geometry and physics agree: we will always collide."

"That sounds a lot like destiny..." Dean realizes he sounds uncertain, his voice wavering. He is freaked out, not because the idea is absurd, but that he could be part of this...inevitable collision. Putting power in destiny is like putting power in a _higher_ power. Dean doesn't believe in God, but knows that Castiel is agnostic at best. "Why does destiny care about who loves who?"

"Maybe it doesn't," Castiel concedes. "Yet, here we are."

Dean squints, watching Castiel's face fall empty of emotion, before burning bright with laughter so suddenly Dean forgets ever being uncomfortable. "Ah, yeah. Here we are."

 

* * *

 

His dad agrees to let Cas stay the night with a surprising lack of resistance. Even after all the shit he's given Dean throughout the years, he is visibly impressed by Castiel. The precise arrangement of badges down his sash - far more than Dean has, that overachiever--seem to sway him away from the harsh glares that Dean was expecting.

Though Dean offers to drive Castiel home, his mother insists on making the drive back.  _She_ took a little more convincing on Cas's part, but she doesn't look at Dean like a boy who has tainted her son; she looks at Dean like she can't understand what he and Cas have. He hopes to, one day, show her, right after he's through showing Cas.

Once back at home, Dean announces that the first thing he's going to do is change. Wordlessly, Cas follows him down the hall to his bedroom. Dean shuts the door behind him, and locks it.

"I've been wanting to do this all day," Dean manages to say before he is pushing his whole body into a kiss that has Cas pressed up against his door.

After overcoming the shock of the kiss's force, Castiel eagerly returns the sentiment, sighing into Dean's mouth. He tastes like fruit punch and Doritos, and Dean can hardly fathom why that makes him prod his tongue deeper to capture more of that taste.

Cas runs his fingers bluntly down the center of Dean's chest, a slow decent that ends with them wrapped around Dean's hips. Dean hums, satisfied by the lower embrace, and lets his lips drift to the corner of Cas's mouth, to his jaw, to his neck. His neckerchief is tight there, so Dean does them both the favor of untying it. Castiel sighs once the fabric hangs limp at the base of his neck, digging his fingers into Dean's hips and tugs their lower halves together.

_This is new_ , Dean's mind gasps, and then his own breath hitches when he feels their groins grind. Dean hadn't realized he was hard, not because he was oblivious to that all the time, but because he and Cas have never went there. He didn't want to-- and frankly didn't know--if he was ready to push that boundary. But Cas was the instigator, and he was most definitely pushing--pushing their hips together, slotting their dicks like there aren't layers of fabric separating them.

"--Cas," Dean hums into his neck, the syllable forced as Castiel's hips roll up and down. He feels lightheaded, as every fractional motion burns with simultaneous friction and pleasure.

"Yes, Dean?" How does he manage to sound so complacent, so  _together,_ whereas Dean is coming part  _fast_. Instead of answering, he pulls back and turns them around, so that he can properly guide Cas to where they need to be. _  
_

The backs of Castiel's knees hit the bed first, and his entire body follows suit. Desperate to realign their hips, Dean climbs atop him and rests his forearms on either side of Cas's head. Here, he can kiss Cas, and here he can comfortably roll his lips and rub their groins. 

Sooner than he would have liked, Dean's vision goes white and he feels a burst of wetness in his pants, a familiar throb that forces a rough moan from his throat. Dean muffles the sound in Cas's cheek, riding out the remainder of his orgasm while Castiel thrusts his own hips up into the mess, finding release a minute later. Dean's name is on his lips, a whimper that he subdues to almost a whisper. Dean wishes he had the talent of being quiet.

Dean rolls over since he is too boneless to lift himself up off Cas's chest, and is left with the sound of their breaths heaving--like they've both run a freaking marathon. He blindly gropes for Cas's hand, latches onto it, silently asking,  _was that okay?_ He turns his head, worries lulled when he finds Cas already looking at him, eyes blown and a blissed-out smile on his lips.

"Was that destined?" Dean murmurs, biting his bottom lip in an effort to be coy.

"I think we made that up," Castiel replies, thoughtful. "That was spontaneity at its best."

"Mhm, yeah, talk dirty Cas." Dean chuckles as he leans up and forward, balancing his weight on his hip as he kisses Cas on the side of his mouth.

"Next time," Castiel promises, and how nice that promises looks coming off kiss swollen lips.

Dean is only just recovering from the  _first_ time, so he feels mind boggle (hopefully) upon considering that there will be more times. Sweet mother of god, he thinks he feels his dick twitch in the wet mess of his boxers, he has never been so turned on.

Instead of dwelling on it, Dean urges his erection to go away and rolls off his bed, because dad and Sam are probably downstairs wondering why it's taking them so long. Well, Sam--being the intuitive little bitch he is--probably is not wondering. If he's a good brother, Dean hopes he's distracting dad. Dean goes to his dresser and gets a fresh pair of boxers, sweats, and a shirt for Cas to wear tonight, and then the same articles for himself. He thinks about Cas wearing his stuff and it sends a throb straight to his groin, and he groans frustratedly.

"What's wrong?"

Dean throws his boxers at Cas first. He flinches and catches them, eyebrows cocked so high on his forehead that they look like they're part of his hairline. And then, so suddenly, his face relaxes, and the tension in his forehead sinks into his lips, creating a coy smirk as he spreads the waistband of Dean's boxers.

"You're what's wrong," Dean murmurs, blushing hard as he turns around, feigning shamelessness as he disrobes. He hopes Cas has the nerve to turn around too as he changes.

 

* * *

 

If his dad was wondering where they went, he doesn't say anything. He's sitting on the couch in front of the evening news, Sammy in a recliner with a book hovering above his head. Castiel wanders over him, starting a conversation about what he's reading. Right thereafter, his dad lays the remote at his side and stands up. "Dean, I need your help with the car."

Dean blinks, and almost asks Cas to come with him, but his dad narrows his eyes like he can read Dean's mind. So, he doesn't, but casts a wayward glance over his shoulder--to Cas--as they walk out into the garage.

The hood is propped open, a few tools strewn on an overturned wooden crate. An oily rag dangles from the corner. Dean knows that car inside out, because his Dad taught him two things: take care of Sammy, take care of the Impala. The former came naturally, and the latter was taught in the rare moments when John Winchester thought it would be a nice idea to be a father.

Knowing this machine like the back of his hand, he can tell that nothing underneath the hood is different. He squints, stepping closer and moving his fingers over the parts of the cool engine. He checks the oil, looking good. Everything seems to be in order. "Is something wrong with her?" he asks his dad.

When Dean turns around to face him properly, there is a brush of air against his cheek and suddenly his hands are flying up to his face reflexively; his fingers snag the keys out of the hair, and he gazes at them in confusion.

"...What?"

"They're yours," his dad tells him. " _She's_ yours, if you can tell me the truth."

Dean feels his heart drop into his stomach; he thinks he is going to throw up. No, he  _is--_ the bile teases at the back of his throat, hot and acidic. He coughs to clear it, forcing the acid back down and nods. "O-kay."

"What's Castiel to you?"

Dean could lie, but his dad is a human truth detector, so it wouldn't help the situation. But he can't bring himself to say "Cas is my boyfriend" because he seldom even thinks of their relationship like that.

"He's my best friend," Dean says, and it's wholly the truth; but it isn't everything, "and he means a lot to me."  _The world,_ a voice in the back of his mind supplies, and the weight behind the small thought tugs at Dean's chest. His dad watches him expectantly, waiting for the entire truth. Frustrated, Dean shakes his head. "I don't know what else you want me to say!"

"I don't _want_ you to say anything," he replies, eerily calm despite Dean's agitated state. "I want to know if you're serious about him, or if you two are messing around."

Dean should be able to answer; he never questions his father, not aloud. But here lies a crossroad: he openly admits he is gay for a boy he's known for  _years,_ and opens up a door for his dad not only to banish Cas but to banish  _him;_ or, he could question his father's curiosity.

"Why?" Dean dares, fear and hesitation ripped out from beneath his feet as the words soar from his lips. "Why do you want to know? You've never gave a damn about what I've done in my spare time, who I've hung out with. You have given me shit  _for years,_ because I liked him. Because he cared. And now you want to know? Well--now you know. I _love_ him, and you can kick me out, disown me, but ain't  _nothing_ gonna keep me from him."

"Nothing?" John says after a beat.

Dean nods in confirmation, exhaling a staggered breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Okay."

His father regards him just the same, not angry or terse or demanding. Dean fumbles to wrap his head around what the  _hell_ is going on. "Okay?"

"Did I stutter?" There it is, the gruff undertone as he annunciates, and Dean shakes his head obediently.

"No sir," he murmurs.

"Then, the car is yours," he says, and then goes inside. Dean is left with his index finger dangling the keyring, his brows knitted together. He is  _confused._ Did his dad just  _reward_ him for coming out? Dean swallows, shoving the keys into his pocket. He can't accept that this car is his, not with the inconsistencies bouncing around in his head. With a sigh settling in his lungs, tugging down on his shoulders, he shuts the hood of the car and-- a piece of paper flitters against the dark top, only attached by a small piece of scotch tape.

> _Your mother always wanted you to have it. Take care of her, and she'll take you far._
> 
> _Love, Mom & Dad_


End file.
